


The Smallest of Deeds

by ASimpleArchivist



Series: Before Dawn's First Light [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "No heroics" you said, ((He's jealous)), ((but worried too)), (And totally not jealous), (but not really), (one of my faves), (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ aaayyyyyy, Aftermath of Violence, Anchor Weirdness™, And I have welcomed myself into Cullenite hell without invitation, And Reader Wants to Save the Whole World, And now I am neck deep in DA feels for the first time since 2013, Bc I played Inquisition through for the first time whilst trapped in the quarentine, Blighted High Dragon, Character Death, Cole knows that you know, Concussions, Cullen Is Sus™ of the New Local Tevine, Dad Jokes, Demonic Possession, Demons, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Your Heart Shall Burn, Dreams and Nightmares, Envy Demons (Dragon Age), F/M, Fade Rifts, Frilly Cakes, Gratuitous Internal Monologuing, Grief/Mourning, Haven (Dragon Age), Hypothermia, I like being in Cullen's head, I tweaked a couple of things because I realized there were a few inconsistencies, It's Important™, Just had a year of writer's block, MGiT, Mages (Dragon Age), Modern Girl in Thedas, Mother-Hen Varric, Mutual Self-Care, Nightmares, POV Alternating, Protectiveness, Reader Is Quiet, Reader becomes the Inquisitor after falling through the Fade, Reader is gentle, Red Lyrium, Red Lyrium Cullen, Red Templars (Dragon Age), Redcliffe (Dragon Age), Sailing, Scars, Sea sickness, Shock, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Sort Of, Tea, Templars (Dragon Age), Terror Demons (Dragon Age), The Breach (Dragon Age), The Destruction of Haven, The Fade, The Get Along Lake™, The Thedas Equivelent Thereof, Therinfal Redoubt, Time Travel, Trauma, Val Royeaux (Dragon Age), Venatori, Will update tags as story progresses, You know what happens so you try to use it to your advantage, and I am Living™, but he's supportive anyway, but this will be sort of a UA because of the nature of the reader's knowledge, he knows you want to help, he's a bit confused, hello i am not dead, it's nice in there, reader is shy, wassup, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASimpleArchivist/pseuds/ASimpleArchivist
Summary: Though stung with a hundred arrows,Though suffering from ailments both great and small,His Heart was strong, and he moved on.The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal,But know that the sun always rises.Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs,The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Reader, Cullen Rutherford/You, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Before Dawn's First Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076438
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	1. The Haven

**Author's Note:**

> *rubs hands together furiously* I finally have gotten the chance to play Dragon Age: Inquisition for myself after ordering it to endure the quarantine, so I’ve been tanking up on Cullen fics bc I’ve got it w e a k for Commander Curly - and while I love the in-game inquisitors and their storylines, I haven’t really felt a connection to mine so far, so I opted to go with one of my favorite tropes with a little twist: modern reader in Thedas as the Inquisitor instead of an OC. Maybe my brain is just programmed to be fond of reader inserts, but I wanted to play with the idea.  
> And because I like being different, I made this inquisitor sweet and innocent and t i n y - and her entire inner circle become super duper protective of her as a result, especially the ones she knows for the longest. Only some of the inner circle know about her being from a different world, and even then it’s only the advisors, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas at first.  
> (Look I just love Cass okay she’s so cool and protective and I feel like she would always have the Inquisitor’s back even in the little things especially if she’s super gentle and naive T-T)

“Commander.”

“Yes - what is it?

“I’ve been trying to do as you asked, ser, with the report, but-”

“But what?”

“-I haven’t been able to locate the Herald.”

Cullen stopped when his sword made contact with the training mannequin, cleaving clean through the shoulder. He watched as the arm crumpled into the snow, releasing bits of straw from the inside of the battered cloth shell. He straightened, inhaling the cold air deeply as he tried not to focus too much on the hot, sticky sweat clinging to his underclothes beneath his armor. He stuck the tip of his sword into the frozen ground to help balance himself and peered through his loosened curls at the messenger clutching the vellum-bound report board with tight fingers.

“You have not found her?” the commander questioned dubiously.

“No, ser,” he answered quickly, nervously. “I’ve looked all over Haven - the chantry, the smith, the stables, the apothecary, even the bathhouse and the barracks. She’s nowhere to be found.”

“Have you checked the infirmary?” Cullen asked, only having heard that the Herald had returned late the previous night from their week-long journey to and in the Hinterlands with Lady Cassandra, Varric, and that elven apostate...whose name wasn’t coming readily to mind. Though he figured he would’ve heard if she’d been hurt, if that were the case.

“Everywhere, ser,” the messenger assured. “I asked around and everyone said they haven’t seen her.”

Cullen hummed, puzzled. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, attempting to tame the dampened locks back into some semblance of decency. He was tired after a long, restless night of night terrors and discomfort, hot flashes and nausea preventing him from being able to lay in one position longer than a few minutes. The withdrawals came and went in waves, and the previous night had been one of the worst yet - he’d finally given up a couple of hours before sunrise and had started to work reading the large stack of reports and attempting to organize his mess of a desk. After the morning drills, he’d still felt anxious, needing to release the pressure trapped within him.

He was pleasantly surprised that the training mannequin was still standing, even leaning as dangerously like a drunken man as it was.

“I will see if I can find her,” he said finally, his stomach grumbling not for the first time since he’d puked up the remains of his supper behind a tree during the drills. “Keep an eye out and fetch me if you see her.”

The man saluted, seemingly relieved, and handed him the report before joining his comrade near the tents, no doubt to gossip. That boy was shockingly prone to loosened lips for someone that supposedly had worked for Leliana.

As Cullen headed towards the stairs leading into the gated entrance of Haven, he wondered at the little woman that had been dropped into the middle of such a crisis. At their first war table meeting after stabilizing the Breach, your admission of being thrown into Thedas through it from a different world altogether had been staggering, especially to him - the thought that there were different worlds beyond the Fade, beyond the stars, had never once occurred to him in his life, and to think it even possible...luckily, he’d been too exhausted of late to truly question it. He was afraid his mind wouldn’t be able to handle it if he thought on the concept’s innate insanity too hard.

You’d been so apprehensive, telling him, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra of the nature of your circumstance and origins - your hands had been shaking with fright, face pale, trying your best to brace yourself on the table to keep yourself standing. You’d still been exhausted from sealing the Breach and the rifts around it despite being unconscious for nearly three days, likely starving and parched - that much had been obvious, even to him - but you’d done your best to remain presentable and to commit all of your attention to the issues and goals presented by the Inquisition’s new advisors.

As soon as the topic of meeting Mother Giselle had been opened, your face had taken on a quiet type of urgency, a knot forming between your brows as you’d nodded and decided that you’d set out immediately to save precious time. You’d left within the hour, with Cassandra, Varric, and...Solas? (Was that his name?) towed behind you on the scrawny, shivering mounts Haven’s small stable had been able to spare. Days later, the flood of reports that’d been sent back by Leliana’s weary ravens had astonished him, featuring so much work accomplished in such little time - your dedication was admirable, and he’d marveled at how you’d been able to scout the Hinterlands and seal its rifts so quickly.

He remembered, with little effort, the first time he’d seen you in person. Before that, while you were unconscious from the explosion, Cassandra had told him in detail what’d happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes (to the best of her ability, anyway) - what the soldiers had said about you stumbling out of the rift and falling immediately unconscious as your left palm had rippled and sparked in time with the Breach looming over their heads, the apparition of a ghostly, glowing woman reaching out behind you. She’d made you out to be some evil, callused figure, convinced that you’d been the one who’d caused it all - he hadn’t known any better, feeling quite confused and angry at it all himself, struck once again in his life by a tragedy unspeakable, wanting someone to blame for making him lose so many men and innocents in such staggering little time.

He never would have expected that the tiny woman stumbling behind Lady Cassandra, face paled and clammy, clutching a bloodied sword in your hands, and staring up at him with rounded, terrified eyes, would have been the one so readily accused of murdering the Divine and all those hundreds of souls involved at the conclave. Cassandra had admitted to him, after having returned from that mission with your unconscious body toted off into an empty cabin to rest, that she shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions so quickly, remarking at how emotionally you had reacted throughout it all. You’d watched every soldier’s back, had helped them get away from demons frothing at their necks, and had made sure everyone was all right once the pride demon had been slain and the Breach had been stabilized before collapsing face-first into the charred, crumbled rubble.

The newly named Herald of Andraste was certainly an enigma, and Cullen didn’t quite know what to think of you. You seemed the quiet, timid sort, only speaking when necessary or prompted, using your actions to speak louder than your words. He’d noticed, in the reports you’d written yourself, that your handwriting was small and flowy and elegant - your vocabulary was poetic, in a way, and he’d found himself getting lost in the descriptions of the locations you’d surveyed, the camps you’d helped establish, even the little favors and errands you’d run for people devastated by the chaos running rampant in the land. Remorse had been obvious in the way you’d explained your attempts at reasoning with the mages and the templars grappling with each other, trying to get them to see reason before they’d attacked. You’d sent supplies of herbs and food and materials back to Haven by the wagon load, only a portion of the work you’d done for the people and the villages struck by disaster.

Cassandra had noted in one of her briefings that you’d hardly rested at all, had barely stopped to nourish yourself - she’d told him, in a private letter to update him on the proceedings, that you’d given a soft word and gentle hand to anyone who needed it, even the horses you’d acquired from Master Dennet. It was odd, to both the seeker and himself, that someone under so much sudden responsibility and pressure and dire circumstances could stand to be so kind.

He had to admit that he was more than a little curious about you. He wondered if it would stand for him to get to know you better any time soon.

Cullen exhaled heavily, shaking his head to ward away the jumble of thoughts tangled in the forefront of his mind. The Breach was still the main priority, the Inquisition and his men next, his own needs last - anything else could wait until the immediate threat had been dealt with.

He wandered through the village, stomach tightening as he smelled the promise of food wafting out of the Singing Maiden, nodding at those who greeted him, feeling a little more settled than before. He wished he could take more walks - they’d always helped keep him sane since he was young, especially if he got to explore places he hadn’t yet seen. He wondered if he could scout the outskirts of Haven without getting too terribly far behind in his recruits’ training.

As he made the corner up the second set of stairs onto the main stretch of buildings, he hooked a left towards a small cluster of cabins against the village wall mostly occupied by the wounded, elderly, and young. The one furthest back was the Herald’s, he knew - Cassandra had informed all three advisors where you were staying in case they needed you - and he figured that the messenger wouldn’t have thought to look there given your proclivity for being up and about helping those you could and running all manners of errands.

The brief thought of you having run away occurred to him, but he dismissed it. He sincerely doubted that possibility - you’d proved yourself committed too much to the Inquisition’s cause already, and had won over his good favor and opinion despite the nature of your meeting.

It helped that you seemed a sincerely good-natured person - he didn’t get to interact with very many these days.

When the last cottage finally came into view, his pace faltered, slowed, when he saw the swarthy seeker standing guard like a loyal mabari at the front door. She seemed just as surprised to see him, if the subtle rise of her eyebrows were any indication.

“Cullen,” she greeted, questioning.

“Cassandra,” he returned. He glanced at the window to the right, seeing no candlelight inside despite it being roughly midday. “Is...the Herald…?”

“Fine,” she said, cutting through his worry easily. She gestured vaguely as she talked, lifting only one hand from where her arms were folded over her plate-bound chest. “I told her last night to rest.”

It was his turn to raise a brow. “All day?”

“Yes.” The raven-haired noblewoman nodded once. “She worked tirelessly in the Hinterlands, as I’m sure you’re aware. If she is to make the journey to Val Royeaux tomorrow, she needs her strength returned to her swiftly.”

“I’m aware,” he affirmed, rolling his shoulders back and leaning into his heels as he, too, folded his arms, tucking the report under them. “You’re making the trip so soon after returning?”

The Navarran sighed agitatedly, shaking her head at the snow trampled beneath her boots. Cullen tried not to smirk when he realized it reminded him of an impatient druffalo bull. “She...insisted. Quite firmly. Despite having to brace herself on her mount to keep herself awake when we returned.” She exhaled sharply, a scoff that would’ve singed the hair off a lesser, ignorant man’s face - he knew her better than to take the evident ire at face value, knew that frustration often welled up from her deep capacity for care and concern. She was quite taken with you, if her written word was anything to go by - and she believed in you, as reckless as you seemed sometimes. “I thought I would never get her to sit down the entire time we traveled the Hinterlands.”

“It seemed as though she was rather driven to do all she could,” he agreed.

Cassandra let out another scoff. “The number of _errands_ she ran - I never thought we would get away from the farms!”

Cullen had to chuckle at that, unable to resist against the impatience still lingering in the seeker’s tone. He smothered it with his glove, stroking his chin, feeling the rasp of his stubble against the worn leather. (He’d need to shave soon.) “And yet you managed to cover much land in so little time. For a woman who claims to be a civilian, she does seem very sturdy.”

“She hasn’t a lick of combat experience, but she has shown aptitude for the sword. She has potential, and her form and aim are good - though it will need work,” Cassandra remarked, not for the first time, but the first out loud. “She claims that she frequently made short journeys on foot to explore the lands near her home for leisure.”

“I suppose it makes her better suited for all the little tasks people are bound to beg of her,” he returned.

Cassandra’s gaze softened minutely. “She...talked with a man in Redcliffe, who asked her to place flowers on his wife’s grave. There were a couple more things we had to do in the area, but she took the time to pick them and…” She sighed softly, something like respect in her eyes. “She treated it so tenderly. I don’t see how I ever thought she…”

Cullen tilted his head forward, catching her gaze. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m sure she doesn’t hold it against you. She seems to respect you and your advice a great deal.”

“I suppose…” She trailed off, shook her head. “Nevertheless, she’s proved herself to me. She seems to be adjusting well, and handles herself in battle now that I’ve shown her the basics - though I worry about how much sealing rifts exhausts her.”

Cullen’s brows furrowed, remembering Solas mentioning something along those lines in one of his lengthy written postulations on the Herald’s Mark. “Does it affect her as badly as the Breach did?”

“No, and with every rift that she closes she seems to grow stronger, more proficient,” Cassandra said, “but it still takes much out of her. Solas said that giving her lyrium could potentially-”

An abrupt wave of nausea made him drop his head, and the seeker stopped immediately.

“Cullen?” she asked softly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m - I’m fine,” he said after a moment, swallowing a mouthful of phlegm and hoping he didn’t look too pale when he raised his head, trying to ignore the lightness of it. “Cassandra, I don’t think that would be a wise course of action.”

Her brows furrowed. “I understand your concerns, Commander, but if it would strengthen her enough to seal the Breach then-”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, a little more harshly than he’d meant to. He gave her an apologetic look when she gave him an unimpressed one of her own, and she accepted it with a curt nod. “That’s why I think we should reach out to the templars, they could give her the extra strength necessary to-”

“I know,” Cassandra sighed, holding up a hand. Cullen stopped, not seeking a debate at the moment. “We will discuss that prospect after the Herald’s audience with the Council.”

He nodded, and exhaled, letting his arm drop and glancing at the report again. He’d almost forgotten about it. At Cassandra’s questioning look, he explained, “I wrote a report on the soldiers’ progress and supplies they might need so she could approve it before I turn it in to the quartermaster. I intended to send it to the Herald, but James couldn’t find her.”

“Ah. It truly is a wonder that James finds much of anything.” She reached out, and he placed it in her hand. She skimmed it, eyes thoughtful, and her expression sobered when she reached the second page. “I don’t think there’s enough blankets in all of the Frostbacks to properly equip our people here.”

“I know it’s a feeble hope,” he acknowledged, rubbing the back of his dampened neck. The cold had chilled his skin, relieving some of the feeling of grime. “But I thought we could reach out to the Hinterlands to see if any of our new allies there would be willing to support us.”

“They should, with how selflessly the Herald assisted them,” Cassandra said speculatively. “I am hoping that we might make acquaintances with any curious parties in Val Royeaux as well.”

“That would be a welcome relief, despite the nature of such company,” Cullen agreed. He took a deep breath, glancing up at the sun’s position and then over his shoulder at the Singing Maiden, where a passel of soldiers were all trying to get in the door. “I ought to leave you be, Lady Cassandra.” He looked back to her, curious. “Have you yet eaten?”

“This morning,” she said dismissively. She tilted her head in thought, pursing her lips in thought as she turned to regard the door behind her. “Though…”

“Would you like me to fetch something for the Herald?” he inquired. He hoped to at least greet you after your long absence. There were many things he needed to discuss with you, but he thought it better to make more a connection than mere acquaintance.

“I will almost be willing to pay you for fetching it alone,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “The amount of curious townspeople I’ve turned away has been staggering.”

Cullen knew all too well how far the murmurings of the Herald had reached - the villagers couldn’t seem to decide whether you were a blessing in disguise or a curse dropped on their doorstep. He shrugged a shoulder, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword. “I can only imagine - but you needn’t pay me anything. I’ll do anything for our Herald, as long as she’s able to fulfill our hopes.”

“Such loyalty so quickly,” Cassandra mused, the faintest suggestion of a smirk on the corner of her mouth. Cullen felt his face flush on reflex. It was gone within heartbeats when a frigid breeze slipped past them from behind the houses, however, and Cassandra returned to her normal disposition. “But yes, it would be greatly appreciated. I doubt the Herald has had a proper meal since before we returned to Haven.”

“You think she’s still asleep?” Cullen inquired, glancing at the window on reflex. He wished - Maker, he _pined_ \- for a full night’s rest, maybe longer. Much longer. He felt he could sleep a week if he were able to avoid the dreams that accompanied it.

“I...don’t know,” Cassandra admitted, the tiniest bit sheepish. “I didn’t wish to disturb her, risk waking her, so I’ve been waiting here.”

Cullen raised a brow. “Did you intend to send her back to bed if she left it?”

“No,” the seeker claimed adamantly, though he could see the color in her cheeks. “But I would’ve _encouraged_ her - to…”

“What?” he asked, studying her abrupt, dumbfounded gaze, locked over his shoulder. He turned, curious, unaware of what would astound the normally unflappable woman so suddenly. Then he felt a laugh build up in the base of his throat, stifled only by biting his own tongue.

Dressed plainly in the earth-toned woolen garments Josephine had custom ordered, dusted in snow, hair tangled with leaves and twigs, and face pinkened from the cold, you crested the stairwell and, unwittingly, walked past them up to the main plaza. They watched you approach the quartermaster with warmth and satisfaction, talking animatedly with your hands and pointing towards the lake, undoubtedly in your odd accent that reminded him of how strange you really were.

You’d expressed your surprise at how they were all able to understand you, having speculated that your native tongue and Common were not one in the same despite the illusion of such, but Solas had postulated that it could have been the Veil’s doing when you fell through. Nevertheless, you had odd little phrases he could comprehend but not understand, likely a simple dialectical difference, and he found it oddly refreshing. You had a pleasant voice, after all, one he didn’t mind listening to - that was a rare commodity nowadays, with how often he opted for silence for his aching head.

“It would seem,” Cullen remarked with a smirk, memories of Branson and Roselie sneaking out of bed for mischief flickering behind his eyes, “that your charge has slipped your notice.”

“I don’t...how did she...when…” Cassandra groaned softly, dropping her face into her hand and rubbing her eyes. “...She must’ve been up before dawn.”

“That’s how long you’ve been out here,” he stated, sympathetically.

Cassandra did not respond, but it was answer enough for him.

Cullen saw you descend the stairs back to the lower level, a little more of a bounce in your step, and you seemed caught up in your own thoughts until you lifted your eyes towards your place of habitation - and the uninvited guests waiting there for you. To your credit, an immediate flush of sheepishness flooded your face, and your shoulders fell minutely as you shuffled into earshot.

“Lady Pentaghast,” you greeted, clearly embarrassed. “Commander Rutherford.”

“I thought I told you to rest today,” Cassandra deadpanned.

“I was going to,” you began, folding your hands over your stomach, thumbs stroking over the wool in quick little circles that seemed entirely subconscious. “But then I remembered that a logging stand was needed for a requisitions order, so I, ah…”

“Went to scout one out,” the seeker finished, exasperated.

You gave her quite the contrite smile, and it made Cullen clear his throat to rid it of laughter.

“I would have _appreciated_ knowing your whereabouts,” Cassandra told you, calming slowly. “If nothing else but to ensure you were accompanied.”

“It wasn’t far,” you assured her, now bracing your elbow in your Marked hand to fiddle with the pale, furred collar of your cloak. “I knew where there was a good spot for lumber, so I picked elfroot for Adan on the way, and marked some iron veins so we can forge more weapons for our recruits.”

“Speaking of,” Cullen pointed out, drawing your attention, “I have a report for you to review. I sent a messenger but he failed to find you.” He glanced up at your hair, sympathizing the pain you’d undoubtedly feel whenever you would detangle the flora from its mass later. Your eyes lit up a little, a warm smile tugging at the corners of your expression, and he felt his face redden slightly. He held out the vellum for you to take, and you did so, fingertips brushing his gloved ones, and he was remiss to feel any warmth through the well-worn leather. “For the record, while I agree with Lady Cassandra that you should be resting for the journey ahead, your efforts have already addressed two of the issues I described.”

You nodded attentively, waiting until he was through speaking to inspect the script marked upon the parchment. You actually read it, too, eyes tracking the words scratched on it, and Cullen was suddenly very self-conscious of his handwriting - he’d been told by numerous chantry sisters, fellow templars, even his siblings, that his hand was horrendously scratchy, barely legible. He’d worked to improve it upon being promoted in Kirkwall, knowing that his written orders had to be understood with utmost clarity, but it hadn’t done much. However...you seemed unbothered, nary a wrinkle nor crease in your face indicating incomprehension. After a long moment, you looked back up to him with an affirming nod and handed the report back. “Go ahead and give it to the quartermaster - everything here seems perfectly acceptable to request.”

A note of relief trickled down through him, for multiple reasons jumbled together that he didn’t dare to unravel. “Thank you, Herald.” He turned to Cassandra, wondering if she was going to have you rest after all. “If there isn’t anything more needed, then I should see myself to eat second meal.”

“Commander,” you started haltingly, catching him mid-turn. His brows rose as he caught your eye, curious. You hesitated, then shuffled your feet. “I’ve been meaning to get more acquainted with you, and discuss some things. Would you mind…?”

“Would you...like to join me?” he questioned tentatively.

You quirked a brow, a shy smile enveloping your face, one hadn’t seen before, eyes twinkling with mirth. He realized his mistake, face warming as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck. Most of the sweat had dried, thankfully, but he hoped he wouldn’t smell too badly.

“I can save it for another time, if you’d prefer,” you started.

“No! No, to...today is fine,” he assured, his tongue tripping over his teeth. He was distinctly aware of Cassandra’s eyes passing back and forth between them. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards the Maiden. “Ah...shall we?”

You nodded, looking relieved, then turned to the seeker. “Would - would you like to come along, Lady Cassandra?”

“No, thank you,” she responded simply. Cullen wondered if he was imagining the faintest smirk on the edges of her expression. “I have other matters to attend, now that I’m no longer - defending your rest,” she explained wryly. Your expression shifted back into embarrassment, but the seeker waved it off. “All I ask is that you take it easy for our journey.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said immediately, and both warriors tilted their head at the oddness of the expression. Nevertheless, you turned and followed Cullen towards the tavern. He wanted to offer his arm, but there were people around and he never knew how they would react, much less whether you would appreciate the gesture or find it insulting. He did hold the door open for you, however, returning your small smile when you thanked him graciously, and settled at the end of a table in the far corner. Flissa spotted the both of them, he gestured for a meal, and she set to work with vivacity.

“What is it you wished to discuss, my lady?” he asked, once a maid had brought two mugs of watered, warmed honey-mead. He was thankful for the warm liquid to whet his tongue and to ward away the chill settled into his armor and garments and flesh.

You blinked, then grappled with your composure like you hadn’t expected the question. He thought he saw your ears redden, but it must’ve been from the fireplace nearby. “I, ah...forgive me.” You let out a soft, deprecative laugh, rubbing at your face. “It’s been a long week.”

“I understand,” he said, giving you a small smile. “I hear your efforts in the Hinterlands were successful.”

“Yeah, I hope they last,” you returned. You thanked Flissa as she placed two trays of dried meats, cheeses, and breads before you. There was a small, steaming bowl of stew into which you immediately dunked a roll. “Though I’m worried about the mages and the templars.”

“It will have to be addressed sooner rather than later,” he agreed, chewing on a strip of druffalo jerky.

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you, actually,” you said, swallowing. “I was hoping you would be able to give me more insight into the templars and their situation.”

“If you wish to know anything current, then I’m afraid I will be of little enlightenment,” he informed you, a bit more resigned than he’d intended. He cleared his throat. “But as far as the Order was before they rebelled against the chantry, then I think I can help.”

You nodded, gratitude flashing in your eyes, and began to ask him the big questions - what they believed, how they served, what their duties were, and he was able to answer them relatively quickly. Then you began to touch on the finer points, inquiring about things someone outside the Order would scarcely know, and he wondered at the depths of knowledge you seemed to have. You asked about oaths that were taken, how far they extended, but when he fully expected you to ask him about his, you stopped, hesitated, then moved on. He was puzzled, more used to Leliana’s endless needle-pricking method of questioning or Cassandra’s blunt, brute force - but yours was more a dance, twirling around the broader subjects and stepping carefully around things that made him outwardly uncomfortable to describe. By the end of it, he was incredulous that you had learned anything new, judging by how neutral your expression had remained throughout.

Though he didn’t expect you to ask him what he would do if you sided with the templars.

“I...can’t say I understand your meaning,” he said slowly, licking the breadcrumbs off his fingers.

“I’ve been asked multiple times with whom I will direct the Inquisition to stand,” you explained, suddenly weary. “And to be honest with you, I don’t know who to choose. Both sides need help. Both sides have suffered oppression and losses in all this. And both sides seem rather adamant that they’re nothing like the other.”

“Are you saying that mages and templars are the same?” he questioned dubiously, momentarily forgetting propriety. He stopped, made to apologize, but you shook your head with a mirthful glint in your eye.

“In regards to how they’re treated by the chantry, they’re very similar,” you pointed out. “Templars never see any praise or recognition for the sacrifices they make on a daily basis, giving their whole lives for little in return. The chantry uses them as pawns more often than not, barely treating them as people.” You raised a brow. “Mages sometimes don’t even have _that_ luxury.”

“I...suppose you’re right,” he admitted, stomach tight. And you were. He’d never thought of it that way. “But you sound as though you don’t want to side with either.”

“I know we’ll have to make a decision soon,” you sighed, sipping the mead and setting the mug down with a heavy _thunk._ He noticed the flush to your cheeks, and inwardly smiled - you were so small, it would be little surprise if even watered mead affected you after long. “I just wanted your opinion, since you've had firsthand experience with both parties.” You plopped a piece of cheese into your mouth, and he made his eyes focus on your face rather than your tongue curling over your fingertips to savor the taste. “Will you be angry with me if I decide to assist the mages?”

He blinked, sitting back slightly. He wanted to say yes, at first, the tightness around his heart that never seemed to ease growing just a little tighter, but he hesitated when he saw your expression. He recognized it, recognized the desire to help - he’d met the Divine, if but briefly, and her passion to bring both mages and templars together had impressed him, had almost overridden his doubt and speculation. You shared that same look, that same conviction, and he somehow knew it would hurt you terribly to turn the other away.

“The mages have the potential to be dangerous,” he began carefully, “and without proper parameters and rules they could easily reek more havoc than good…”

Your expression started to fall minutely.

“...but I understand that you want to help them,” he rushed to assure. “And to avoid any more bloodshed possible would be a good thing. I worry, but I will readily admit that I am not the most qualified to pass unbiased judgment.”

“I know.” You smiled at him, warm and soft and sweet - which made him flush from head to toe under his armor. He swallowed. “And I thank you for your honesty, Commander. Your advice is irreplaceab-”

“Cullen,” he blurted, cutting you off. Your brows rose. “Please. Call me Cullen, if...if we are to be more than colleagues. Not that - not that I’m implying anything, simply...oh.”

Oh, Maker. You had dimples.

“Cullen,” you said with a brilliant smile, a caress of his name over your lips and tongue, and he took a swig of mead to hide his burning face. “I suppose it’s only fair you call me by my name, then, if we’re losing the titles.”

“Of course, ah…” He stopped. Embarrassment flooded over him all at once. “I, ah...I’m sorry, my lady, I’m afraid - I don’t…”

You laughed, shoulders shaking and eyes dancing with mirth. He could feel other eyes on his back, and he prayed to Andraste that she would spare him from the rumors that would inevitably surface from this simple interaction alone. “It’s all right. I wanted to get to the Hinterlands so soon, we hardly had time for proper introductions.” You told him yours, and he repeated it firmly in his head. He hated how poorly he retained people’s names.

“Thank you, my lady.” He grimaced. “Now that I’ve made a proper fool of myself, I should likely return to my work. The recruits need their midday drills, and…”

“I understand,” you chuckled. The sound danced in his ears and made him inexplicably giddy. He blamed the mead. “I should probably prepare for our journey to Val Royeaux, likewise. Thank you for tolerating my curiosity.”

“It was no trouble,” he assured, standing. “Anything to assist the Inquisition and its future.”

You flashed him a grin as you both emerged back out into the cold, strolling towards the edge of Haven with full bellies and warmed limbs. “Is there anything you’d like me to bring back from Val Royeaux? I’ve heard a lot of stories about their little frilly cakes.”

The unexpected question startled a laugh out of him, and he tried to regain his composure when a few scouts glanced at him as they passed, askance. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and shook his head. “I’m, ah...you don’t have to get me anything, my lady.” He paused, slowing to a stop as they reached the crossroads that would lead you back to your cabin. He bit the inside of his lip. “Though, if you do decide to sample their cakes...I’ve heard the ones with raspberry filling and cream are best.”

Your eyes absolutely _glittered_ , and it was almost too dazzling for him to hold with his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind, Cullen.” Your fingers brushed his elbow, just above his vambraces, where he could feel the touch through his shirt. It was fleeting, and just as it appeared it was gone. “I trust you’ll hold Haven together while I’m gone.”

“With my bare hands, if need be,” he answered wryly.

You laughed, and soon you were walking away with a waggle of your fingers. He found himself waving back, like a foolish boy. He straightened, coughed, and resigned himself to returning to the training field, adjusting his mantle on his shoulders and hiding his hot cheeks behind the wisps of ebony and crimson fur.

You had a lovely smile. A lovelier laugh. And he couldn’t say that he’d seen anyone else able to draw them from you.

_Maker’s breath._


	2. The Stirrings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I generally try to keep my reader inserts as vague as possible, but I got a little lost in the purple prose with the beginning of chapter hoping it would flesh out the reader more (can you tell?), so if it doesn’t quite fit your experience with Dragon Age (as it doesn’t me, admittedly) I offer my apologies. I just figured that if any one of us got snatched up to be Inquisitor it would be someone who’s experienced all the games and knows all of the lore pretty well. I have yet to play the first or second games, but I intend to do so eventually - most of my in-depth knowledge has been gleaned from character wikis and fanfiction and so far it’s managed to hold this trainwreck together lol.  
> Just a side note, I know a lot of us wished to be able to help both the templars and the mages, and while my solution isn’t the smoothest, I hope it isn’t too clumsy or awkward as to sacrifice believability. And I think Cullen most likely died fighting in canon as far as the false future is concerned, but I could not pass up the opportunity of making him suffer a little (in kind of a good way, in the end!) - especially to the reader’s dismay. >:) We fix the future so it all works out, don’t worry.  
> Also I just realized that this chapter feels like a Varric friendship simulator. I’m sorry if the scenes feel a bit disjointed or awkward - I’m trying to feel the reader out, and Varric is a comfortable character for me to write so I guess that’s why there’s so much of him here.

To be seasick was one thing you never would’ve expected to experience. You’d been on a couple of ferry rides before, went out on the lake in your youth to fish, but you’d always been too intimidated by the possibility of being stranded or lost to go on a cruise or the like. But boats were better developed where you came from, much more sturdy against the wind and waves, so you couldn’t find it within yourself to blame your stomach for pitching to port or starboard with every lurch and lean that the great merchant’s vessel beneath your feet would take.

The others didn’t seem as bothered by it - Cassandra and Varric seemed perfectly calm, leaning on the railing and watching the fish and birds, jumping out of the water and floating atop it, respectively, while they talked. It seemed that he hadn’t managed to irritate her yet, since she still looked at ease and hadn’t tried to hit him, which you hoped he would try to maintain. The last thing you needed was to try to keep them from killing each other while you yourself were rather...discombobulated.

Swallowing down another surge of bile, you groaned softly to yourself and dropped your head between your knees. You’d settled amongst a group of stacked crates, wedged yourself between two of them to make you feel somewhat grounded. (If they toppled, they’d probably crush you - but to have something solid bracing you was a welcome relief you’d happily suffer broken bones for.) You wanted to retreat to the small, separate barracks that the crew had afforded your ragtag team for the journey, but you knew Solas had stayed there to meditate, probably dreaming away about whatever spirits and memories lingered between the veil and the sea. You’d quickly learned, during your days in the Hinterlands, that it was best to leave him be when he decided to connect to the Fade - he got unbearably grumpy otherwise.

You drew in a deep, slow breath, focusing on the feeling of your lungs and chest expanding, holding it until your heart began to pound in your temples, and released it carefully. It gave you a welcome distraction, away from the ship and the sea and the sky, away from the storm of thoughts that had perpetually plagued you since waking up in the cold, dank dungeon below Haven’s chantry. And still, despite your best efforts, some of those thoughts began to slither through the cracks in the barricade of your controlled breaths.

To most, you’d have seemed a normal woman. Freshly graduated, in your prime, recently hired into the job that matched your career path perfectly, single and free and living contentedly with your cat in your cozy downtown apartment overlooking the city park. Your life had started looking up, being able to start putting dents into your student loans and not worrying about the pressures of deadlines and exams and trying to get on your professors’ good sides. Sure, you indulged in a little too much wine on the weekends sometimes, or ate too much pasta during a week, or didn’t have much of a social life outside your coworkers or the acquaintances you’d made on social media, but you were normal. Painfully normal, in your opinion - not something to be pursued, or outstandingly wanted, which was how you’d always explained the lack of romantic partners knocking on your door or following you out of class to get your number or messaging you on whatever dating app you’d try for a few days and promptly give up on again. Being such a wallflower and barely being able to speak past initial pleasantries did you no favors, either. So sure, you were a bit lonely for human interaction. But you had your cat, and your job, and your hobbies to keep you occupied, so you’d been content for the most part.

Shit. That made you sound like a pisspoor person, didn’t it?

You shook your head with a sigh, suppressing the urge to continue to wallow. Now was not the time.

Art was something that had kept your mind off the silence within your apartment, music playing in the background as you’d draw and paint and sketch. Your cat would often curl up in your lap on your days off, dozing with quiet snores as you’d quietly bring to life scenes and people you’d dream up in your imagination, most of the time inspired by the books or series or video games you’d read or watch or play in your pastime when you didn’t want to think. And recently, because your birthday had passed with a few of your family members and friends sending you cards or messages over the internet and making you a bit homesick, you’d started replaying the Dragon Age series.

It had occupied much of your formative years, allowing you to crawl through the dregs of high school by distracting yourself with tales of heroes and villains and creatures unique to the world of Thedas. You were new to being in the double digits when Origins came out, and after that you’d taken to the mechanics and story and lore like a duck to water. And, while you longed for the quaintness of those days long past, you’d recently started replaying Inquisition to reminisce about your early college days before the majority of your friends had moved off to universities or big cities for jobs, or had gotten married and had started families.

You glanced up when you heard Varric laugh boisterously over the wind, dodging Cassandra’s irate swing at his shoulder easily. She growled at him in Nevarran, lip curling and brows furrowing, before storming off out of sight from the blocked periphery of your chosen hiding place. Still, Varric spotted you easily, and began to wander towards you.

You eyed his movements carefully, took in the details of his face that had been hidden between the screen that had always separated you from him - and the rest of Thedas. He had a few more scars than you remembered, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes a little more defined. Still, his eyes twinkled with mischief and mirth like polished tiger’s eye, and he always seemed to smile. Around you, at least.

“Figured I’d elect to keep you company, since I’ve finally managed to chase Cassandra off with pleasant conversation,” he said wryly, easing down to sit next to you and watch the gulls flying overhead as the sails snapped and the ship creaked. “Can’t get her to make small talk without her wanting to draw her sword.”

“I’m flattered,” you deadpanned, a little blunter than you’d intended. Your stomach turned with guilt and nausea, a poor combination, but Varric shrugged like he’d already heard you apologize.

“First time on the sea?” he asked.

“Like this, yes,” you murmured, lowering your head once more to rest on your knees.

He patted your shoulder briefly. “‘Like this’ as in you’ve never sailed before, or ‘like this’ as being elected ‘the Herald of Andraste’ and awaiting certain doom in Val Royeaux?”

“I would hope that you would rescue me from whatever loathsome punishment the chantry should have in store for a blithering heretic like me,” you quipped, biting back another groan as a wave bashed itself against the side of the ship and sent mist sprinkling down upon the both of you. “But for my mark if nothing else.”

Varric chuckled. “It’s okay. The sea isn’t really forgiving to those who haven’t gotten to know it yet - but you’ll get used to it. And I, at least, enjoy having you around. You keep Cassandra and Solas calm like no one I’ve ever seen - not even Ruffles.”

You grunted in lieu of an answer, feeling your face warm.

“It’s nice, sometimes, to be reminded how little we really all are in comparison to the world around us,” Varric mused. You turned your head just slightly to peek out at him through the strands of hair that had broken free of their bindings. “Scary as hell, sure, but humbling, too.”

“Yes,” you murmured. Paused. “How much longer are we going to be out here?”

Varric laughed outright at that. “Since you last asked me this morning? Probably the rest of the night.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and folded your arms around your head to block out the sound of ropes snapping and crewmen calling across the deck to each other. “Shit.”

“Careful now, you might give people the impression you’re not the holy one that Andraste spawned just to leap to action,” he said mirthfully.

“I never claimed to be Andraste’s chosen,” was your automatic response.

“So you’ve said.” He paused for a long moment, long enough that you worried that you’d managed to offend him, somehow. He was, secretly, Andrastian after all. But when you lifted your head to look at him, he was just studying you with the care of a friend that you felt you didn’t really deserve. “How are you feeling about all this, anyway? I know Cassandra’s spurring speeches could get anybody ready to raise arms, but...you’re really in charge, here. You need to be all right if we have any hope of getting anything done to fix this shitfest.”

You hesitated. Varric had been the only one who hadn’t started treating you like some providential gift meant to right everything wrong in the world, who still looked and talked to you like a normal, flawed, feeling person. Sure, the others were polite and respectful - but being called the Herald all the time and being revered like some chosen, destined hero when you knew, in fact, that the opposite was true...well. Maybe talking about it would help to ease the ever-growing pressure between your temples. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to try - and you could do no better than trusting Varric. Unlike the others, he had no underlying motivations, except maybe to adapt your follies and laughable attempts at diplomacy into a novel like ‘Tales of the Champion’. Even still, you knew that was inevitable. But he was a good man, and he cared, and that was more than enough, far more than what you were accustomed to.

“It’s still...boggling,” you began carefully, mind reeling at what to say and what not to. “I...it’s weird, having to adjust to all this. I don’t see how everyone thinks that I’m going to be able to fix _any_ of this, much less _all_ of it. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to seal the Breach.”

“It is crazy,” he agreed, “but I’ve seen some pretty miraculous things in my day. Though this is taking the cake, by far. Holes in the sky, demons everywhere, a mage and templar rebellion...yeah. Crazy. But you’ve got a lot of good people behind you.” He smiled. “Including me. And with all of us knocking heads together, surely we’ll be able to get an answer to all this formed up eventually.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Yeah. Thanks, Varric.”

He waved it off, eyes falling to your hand. He frowned lightly, voice quietening, as he pointed. “How’re you holding up with...that?”

“We don’t have anything like magic or the Fade where I’m from,” you replied, just as quietly, “or at least nothing that’s been proven. So it’s...very strange. It’s like a constant buzz, like...like a magnet, drawing me to...something. Maybe the Breach? Or the Fade?” You shrugged. “I’m not sure. It tingles when I get close to rifts, and it...doesn’t hurt, really, but it doesn’t feel great when I close them. At least it’s not actively killing me anymore.”

“Solas has stopped mother-henning you, then?” the dwarf asked.

“For the most part. He still watches me pretty close after I seal rifts, though.”

Varric nodded, chewing on his lip. You saw the bubbling curiosity in his eyes, and tilted your head expectantly. Finally, he cracked. “Will you tell me more? About where you’re from?”

You hesitated. You didn’t know how much you should tell. But you could see the author in his rawest form, sitting there watching your every move with rapt attention - you could understand his desire to know more about the unknowns he’d likely never even considered. You had felt the same way about Thedas’ lore and history, after all, once upon a time, devouring as much as you could find.

“It’s...very different,” you began awkwardly. “We’re...pretty far ahead of wooden ships and horse-drawn carts. We’ve got different means of transportation, and lighting, and even eating. There isn’t a whole lot of the world that hasn’t been discovered and urbanized, and we live in relative peace and safety and health for the majority of our lives. We don’t worry about war quite as much, and we’ve certainly got nothing like magic or demons - or even dragons. If we ever did, they’re long forgotten, left behind in the distant past. It’s...a little difficult to explain.” You shrugged, hoping it was enough. “It’s certainly not as - _interesting_ as Thedas.”

“Not nearly as dangerous, it sounds like,” he chuckled. “Must be nice.” He continued eagerly. “And how do you think you got here? How much do you remember?”

“I...don’t really remember a whole lot,” you confessed, relieved to be wholly honest again, not dodging anything that might deconstruct the space-time continuum. “I remember going to sleep, after getting home from work and winding down. I remember dreaming about...darkness, and feeling like I was falling. I...I remember green, and the smell of ash, and - and climbing. A woman, glowing. I remember her voice, but I don’t remember what she sounded like.” You frowned. “I know I should know all this. I know that I should remember, but...I can’t. I’ve tried. And it worries me.”

“So not enough to figure out how you got here,” he concluded, sympathetically. “I’m sure it’ll come back to you somehow. Stuff like that always happens in stories.” He paused. “You mentioned that you were familiar with Thedas, from...legends? What kind of legends? How much do you know about us?”

“Not as much as I used to,” you answered softly, worrying the inside of your cheek. It was a half-truth, but a truth nonetheless - college had kept you from playing it for a long time, so your lore was a bit rusty - but at the same time, there was a striking memory gap about the events you knew must be stretched out before you. “About people? Most of it. Like Cassandra’s family, and how she became a seeker. Or how Josephine and Leliana know each other. Or why Cullen left the Order.” You tilted your head back to rest against the crate behind you. “And...we have stories. Interactive ones, where...we can explore them on our own time, make decisions that alter the outcomes slightly. I’ve seen Ferelden during the last Blight, and Kirkwall when you met Hawke, all through different eyes. It doesn’t change the endings, usually - only slightly. But they end up the same, just with little variations, like...like folktales told by different people. They all have their own opinions, their own ideas, their own spins that they put on the same story. But it’s still the same story, in the end - it retains its originality and plot, even if the details alter slightly.” You exhaled. “...I know a few things about what’s going on right now, but even less about what caused it all, or how it’ll turn out. Like that the chantry isn’t going to hear us.”

Varric quietened, frowning deeply. After a long moment, he spoke up. “So why the hell are you putting yourself through all this just to come to Val Royeaux if you could’ve dashed the trip and done something else?”

“Because, like Mother Giselle said, me being there will start a division in the council,” you explained. “We’re going to find out some valuable information there, about the chantry, and about the templars and mages. And we’re going to gain some new allies. There are always reasons for even the simplest of things, and results that one might never expect.” You paused. “Plus, I’ve always wanted to try those little frilly cakes everyone talks about.”

He studied you for an even longer time than before, contemplative. You could see the thoughts spinning in his eyes like storm clouds. Nevertheless, he exhaled heavily, slumping back against the crate and looking quite stumped. “Well. Shit.”

“I know, right?” you murmured, resting your chin on your arms and gazing out across the sea.

Varric hummed, after a while. “You know, last time I was on a boat, I had Curly and Cassandra both trying to lop my head off. It’s nice to have someone who hates it as much as I do.”

“I thought your family are a bunch of merchants,” you said, curious.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like being on solid ground less than this,” he grumbled. “I may not be a purist, but I do prefer to have what I’m standing on to be relatively stable.” He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Curly looked just about as green around the gills the whole trip. Hope you didn’t catch it from him. Never thought I’d see a man like him be so relieved at the prospect of riding horseback all the way inland to Haven.”

You let out a singular, flat, humorless laugh. “I’m sure he has his reasons.” Nevermind the fact that you already knew that he got seasick.

“What do you make of him, anyway?” Varric asked, unbothered.

You quirked a brow. “Why are you asking me?”

“I saw you go into the Singing Maiden with him before we left,” he said conversationally. “Did he actually pull his sword out of his ass long enough to make small talk?”

You couldn’t help the little snort that escaped your lips, making Varric smirk. You shook your head. “I think we can both agree that he’s mellowed a lot since leaving Kirkwall,” you said, hoping that the dwarf wouldn’t read too deeply between the lines of what you were saying. Varric had interacted with him, even if briefly, during his tenure in the Gallows, had probably seen the aftermath of Anders’ betrayal - and you remembered mentions of Varric trying to get him to open up and reconnect with him after they’d made it to Haven. You hoped Varric would succeed - Cullen needed friends he could rely on. “I’m sure Cassandra humbled him a bit - you know how she is.”

Varric nodded. “Yeah, believe me, I know.” He tilted his head. “What did you talk about, anyway? He was all...shifty when you left.”

You frowned. Had he been shifty? You thought he’d just been embarrassed about not remembering your name. “I asked him his thoughts on the templars and the mages, and for any advice he might be able to offer. If I’m supposed to...make peace, I guess, then I need as many opinions and as much knowledge as I can manage before I make a decision. Even if he left the Order, he still has valuable information and insight.”

“Hmm. Not exactly something out of a romance serial, is it?” he mused.

You froze. “I’m...sorry?”

“Oh, nothing,” he laughed, easing to his feet and waving you off. He smirked when he saw your flushed cheeks. “It always has to start somewhere, doesn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you demanded, knowing exactly what he’d meant, biting your lip when his retreating laughter was your only answer.

You buried your face in your hands with a groan.

“Please tell me that recruiting Vivienne was a good idea,” you mumbled, rubbing your face as you readjusted in your saddle for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. The chestnut forder that Master Dennet had gifted you chuffed, shaking his head, as you coaxed him up onto another steep incline. It was well past noon, the sun beginning to dip in the sky, and the cold mountain air around you was starting to give way to little flurries of snow on the ground. You were close to Haven, but your aching backside made it plain that you weren’t nearly close enough.

“As...opinionated as she is,” Cassandra said carefully, just behind you to your left on her own raven black forder, “she will be a valuable asset, should you remain on her good side. Her standing in the Imperial Court as well as her connections to what remains of the Circles…”

“I know,” you sighed. “But I get the feeling she might end up being more trouble than she’s worth. I don’t particularly care for the Game, and it seems to be her favorite pastime.” You didn’t really care for catty individuals who played nice to hide their own agendas, either, but you couldn’t really say that.

“I’m glad she gets it,” Varric grumbled, tugging the reins on the old pony that he’d borrowed from Haven’s stables to get him to round a fallen tree trunk. He was a grouchy old bastard, but carried the dwarf without complaint. You often caught Varric sneaking him sugarcubes when he thought no one was looking.

“Her arrogance will blind her from making a formidable alliance with the mages,” Solas added, already a bit embittered to the Enchantress’ attitude. He was to your right, the red hart towering over your horses in comparison.

“Nevertheless, for her to be in the Inquisition is a testament we can’t afford to lose,” you sighed. “An ally is an ally.”

“Which is why you recruited that friend of Red Jenny?” Cassandra queried flatly.

You shrugged. “She’ll keep Vivienne down a peg or two, if nothing else. But I think she’s pretty harmless. She can give us good insight to whatever prickly nobles decide to try to earn our favor.”

Cassandra hummed in disbelief, but otherwise didn’t argue. The four of you lapsed into silence, the ground steadily growing more unstable and snowy. The mountains rose up to tower over you, and you shivered beneath your cloak - but within the next hour, the tall stone gates on the east side of Haven finally came into view. There was a cluster of soldiers stationed there, and they drew to action when they spotted you.

“The Herald’s back!”

“Sound the horn!”

“Open the gates!”

You gave them a gracious smile as you passed through, your forder’s gait increasing as he recognized that his warm stall was near. The others kept close, looking equally as eager to rest, even for as little time as you knew you had.

All the recruits turned to look as you cantered past, saluting you and your followers eagerly. The lieutenants did the same, but were quick to order the men back to their drills. Dennet’s stablehands rushed out to meet you, taking the reins and helping you down off your mounts, offering to return your saddlebags to your cabin. You accepted the offer, seeing that Cassandra was already headed your way with purpose.

“I am sure the others are waiting for us in the chantry,” she said, and you nodded and followed with a weary, anxious sigh you hoped she didn’t hear.

You knew it was going to come to this, had known since the start: the decision of whether to ally with the mages or templars. It had kept you up at night, thinking and rethinking and overthinking every aspect and fact and result that your choice would make. You didn’t want the mages to fall into Tevinter’s hands - many of them had just been swept along into the rebellion with the rest, and there were children and elderly that would likely be tossed out. They’d been through so much in their lives, and the last thing you wanted was for them to deal with even more imprisonment. But, on the other hand, there were good templars that would not stand for what their superiors were going to wreak, unaware of their machinations in search of power. You hated the thought of those dedicated men and women losing their minds to red lyrium, or losing their lives in trying to resist it.

And with every step you took after Cassandra, headed through Haven’s inner gates and around the houses and tents towards the chantry, your heart pounded louder and your breaths grew shallower. It was up to you, now. You didn’t have any more time - you couldn’t go on an expedition to the Storm Coast or the Fallow Mire or the Forbidden Oasis to bide your time and grind and decide then. These were real human lives in your hands, and you wouldn’t just hand them over to - to…

To who?

You frowned, wracking your mind. You recalled Alexius, and Lucius...Calpernia and Samson. But...there had been someone else, right there behind them, lurking on the edge of your mind. A name.

“Shit,” you mumbled, frustrated.

Cassandra glanced back at you, concerned. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m just...trying to make sense of all this,” you said softly, trying to ignore the growing sense of dread at not being able to remember. Could it be that the universe had put a stopper on your knowledge to keep you from knowing too much? You hadn’t gotten that far into the game back in your world, sure, but...certainly you’d remember the biggest plot device in its story? “It’s...a lot to take in.”

She gave you a grave nod, and you swallowed as she pushed open the doors to the chantry. The fading sunlight behind you spilled onto the carpet stretching towards the war room, and the hall was oddly empty save for a couple of chantry sisters tending silently to the shrines. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden dim, the heady cloy of incense filling your lungs.

Josephine appeared from the side, smiling, but you could see that it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s good that you’ve returned,” she said, with evident relief, but her expression fell minutely. “We heard of your encounter.”

Cassandra stopped as the diplomat met you in the middle of the hall, brows rising. “You heard?”

“My agents in the city sent word ahead, of course,” Leliana answered, and you turned to look at the approaching duo.

Your breath caught a little, despite yourself.

The angles and curves of Cullen’s face glimmered in the soft candlelight, molten gold cast and hewn by hands unseen. His hair was a bit unkempt, a couple of errant curls breaking free of the pomade that usually held it together, and he’d obviously been sparring by evidence of the sweat dotting his hairline. He would have passed for healthy, had your eye not noticed a marked difference in the pallor of his skin, normally a warm sun-kissed tan. There were dark circles under his eyes.

You tried not to stare.

“It’s a shame the templars have abandoned their senses,” he grumbled, folding his arms over his plated chest as he shook his head in disappointment, “as well as the capital.”

“We needed to make contact,” you said, trying to point out the silver lining. You began to move deeper into the chantry, and the rest followed suit. “We have an opportunity, as well as new connections.”

“Yes,” Josephine agreed, brightening visibly, “and we have the opening we need to approach the templars and the mages.”

“Do we?” Cassandra questioned, frowning. “Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember.”

“True - he has taken the Order somewhere,” Leliana said, “but to do what? My reports have been...very odd.”

“We must look into it,” Cullen responded firmly. “I’m certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker.”

“ _Or_ ,” Josephine added, “the Herald could simply go to meet the mages in Redcliffe, instead.”

Cullen turned on his heel to address the Antivan, brows furrowing. The others stopped, likewise. “You think the mage rebellion is more united? It could be ten times worse!”

“There’s no use in bickering about this,” you butted in gently, eyeing all three of your advisors. “We need to figure out what will be necessary to reach out to either party if we have any hope of an alliance at all.”

“I agree,” Cassandra said immediately, catching your eye and nodding in approval. You gave her a small smile of gratitude in return.

“We shouldn’t discount Redcliffe,” Josephine pointed out. “The mages may be worth the risk.”

“They are powerful, Ambassador, but more desperate than you realize,” Cassandra said.

You shook your head, sighing softly. “There is as much danger with the mages as there is with the templars,” you reminded them. “They are both preoccupied with waging war, so peaceful talks are not going to be at the forefront of their minds.”

“If some among the rebel mages were responsible for what happened at the conclave...” Cassandra began gravely.

“The same could be said about the templars,” Josephine interrupted.

“True enough,” Cullen said, frown deepening as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Right now, I’m not certain we have enough influence to approach the Order safely.”

“Then the Inquisition needs agents in more places.” The seeker looked over to you. “That’s something you can help with.”

Josephine dipped her head. “In the meantime, we should consider other options.”

You nodded, reaching up to rub at your face. There was a chance...perhaps now you should address it. “Wait.”

The others stopped, having already turned to disperse. They gave you their full attention, eyes expectant. You looked them all in the eye in turn, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you selected your next words as carefully as you could manage.

“What if,” you said slowly, “we allied with the mages _and_ the templars?”

And just as you’d feared, the reaction was immediate.

“What?” Cullen pressed, a deep, bewildered scowl contorting his face.

“Are you serious?” Cassandra questioned, likewise, giving you a questioning look that made you shrink into your armor, looking to your remaining advisors to gauge their thoughts.

Leliana remained quiet, eyes downcast, expression thoughtful, as she rubbed at her mouth. Josephine looked hesitant, lips pursed, as she obviously tried to find the words to reply. You folded your arms over your chest, shuffling your feet and easing back half a step to escape the skepticism radiating from them.

“I am,” you finally managed, voice quiet. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and we obviously can’t come to a decision to agree on one group, so...I say we reach out to both.”

“You _are_ serious,” Cullen echoed, eyes rounding in shock.

“My lady Herald,” Leliana began slowly, and even she, to your increasing dismay, seemed skeptical. “You cannot possibly think that it is feasible. With so much aggression and hate, not to mention the-”

“We are barely able to keep the war at bay even here in Haven!” Josephine blurted out, slapping her hands over her mouth like she hadn’t meant for the words to escape.

“They are right,” Cassandra admitted begrudgingly, sympathy in her eyes as she looked at you apologetically. “You were there in the Hinterlands, and saw what they have done when faced with the other. The templars and mages here have just short of ignored each other in order to coexist, and brawls have broken out despite even that - and the thought of bringing the full forces of their rebel armies directly to Haven…?” She trailed off, shaking her head, though not without remorse. “...I just do not see how you think it possible, Herald.”

Your lips thinned, and you tried straightening your shoulders. “ _Look_ ,” you began as firmly as you could, “I realize that it seems impossible. I hadn’t really considered it before now, because it all seems so black and white, but _think_ about it!” You dropped your arms to gesture emphatically, trying to implore them with the sincerity of your tone. “What better place to start rebuilding peace between the mages and the templars than under one banner, fighting together to stop the veritable end of the world?” When none of them readily answered, you blazed on. “Yes, there has been conflict in Haven, but those incidents were all as a result of overindulgence at the Singing Maiden, correct? And just between the most vocal extremists? I read the reports.”

Cullen blinked, realizing you were looking directly at him. “...Yes, you’re right, but-”

“That means,” you continued, growing more convinced of yourself with every word rolling off of your tongue, “that all this time, we’ve had templars and mages working together to keep Haven whole - battling demons, caring for the wounded, protecting civilians, all of it! We haven’t had war here - we’ve had mutual cooperation despite a stark contrast in background and opinion, despite the reluctance and ignorance!” You took a breath, seeing Josephine’s eyes beginning to glitter. Encouraged, you continued with a smile, “Can you imagine what we would be able to accomplish if we stopped the war right at its heart? It would save countless lives, enforce the Inquisition’s numbers, and prove to everyone outside it that we’re a movement that solves problems rather than dodging them or picking sides!”

Cassandra’s expression had warmed, and Leliana seemed even more thoughtful than before.

You looked to Cullen, hopeful.

He regarded you carefully. “You raise a compelling point,” he admitted willingly, “but...to bring the combined forces of the apostates and rebel templars here, to Haven? Expecting them to occupy the same plot of land, even if we do manage to instate peace?” He shook his head slowly, disbelievingly. “They will be at each other’s throats before they even come through the gates.”

You wanted to persuade him - _all_ of them - so badly that your heart felt like it was lodging itself between your ribs in an attempt to reach out to them. “While we were in Val Royeaux, Grand Enchantress Fiona informed me that they are taking up residence in Redcliffe, and gave us an open invitation to speak with her on the matter. I’m afraid that someone might try to take advantage of that - of their desperation,” you tacked on, nodding to Cassandra. “They’ve got children and elderly and sick and wounded that need to be taken care of, and it would be frighteningly easy for anyone with even a mite of power to sway them with any offer of help. I needn’t spell out to you how disastrous that could be, for us _and_ the mages. If a noble took them in as his army, and if he decided he opposes the Inquisition?” You gritted your teeth, knowing you couldn’t say anything about Alexius. Righteous anger burned low in your belly. “I can’t stomach the thought of them being taken advantage of by someone power-hungry and greedy when all they want is a better life. If we promise them freedom and independence and protection within the Inquisition until they get their feet under them and the Breach is sealed, then perhaps they’ll elect to join us.”

It took a few moments for any one of the advisors to speak, still evidently reeling from your impassioned proposition.

Leliana tilted her head, curiosity shining through her meticulously neutral facade. “What exactly would this compromise entail?”

“As much as I believe the mages have a right to manage themselves,” you admitted, “I am no fool. I realize that they are as guilty of a party as the templars are in participating in this war. I know that not all of them have as pure of intentions as some do, and that there very well may be spies in their midst. They will be watched, and given guidelines to follow, but I think we should give them a chance to prove themselves, should they agree to our terms.”

Leliana nodded, after a moment of consideration, seeming to approve.

You glanced at the others, and Cullen sought out your eyes, a tentative hope to his expression that caught you off guard. “...And what of the templars, my lady?”

“The templars haven’t been treated as they should, either,” you immediately began. “It is no secret what the chantry forces upon them in regards to their duties and lyrium intake - and they have never offered solace to templars driven mad by its influence. Templars live the entirety of their lives dedicating themselves to the Order, and yet the chantry gives them just short of nothing in return for their sacrifice. I can understand, to a degree, why they would desire something to change. But it would be difficult to convince them to turn away from their path, and even more so to coax them into peace with the mages. There is so much pain both sides hold…” You shook your head remorsefully. “But I realize that they are necessary. Mages are still dangerous, under the right circumstances - and with so many unknowns in their numbers, to have templars here to defend the innocents would be irreplaceable. I don’t think they should have authority over them by any means - if they all answered to someone outside of their ranks, then perhaps it will help to buffer the hostility. Templars are just as much of a threat as the mages are, and they all need to be under equal standing and responsibility - if we can convince them both to join the Inquisition, then it would reduce the number of casualties drastically both now _and_ in the future.”

Cullen’s expression was still a bit pinched, but he looked more accepting than he had at first. “You have...given this much thought,” he said slowly. “If you are proposing a limitation in templar influence over the mages, then what will they do should a mage decide to exact revenge for a past wrong? Or attack out of sheer aggression?”

“The templars would receive equal protection,” you assured him adamantly. “Both the mages and the templars have been oppressed in different ways throughout all this time, and they’re taking it out on each other instead of trying to fix it. If we can show them that they can be more than what the chantry forced them to be, that they can be greater together, then maybe it’ll be the foundation on which their future can be built.” You glanced between them all, sighing softly. “More than anything,” you admitted softly, “I want there to be no more bloodshed than there has already been. I want to fix this - or at least try my hardest, however I can.”

Silence lingered in the chantry hall for a long while, and every one of them looked like they were seriously considering the possibility for the first time. Josephine, in particular, seemed hopeful at the prospect of curbing any more violence.

“I cannot say that it will not be difficult,” she began carefully, a bit worried despite the enthusiastic gleam in her eyes, “but...you are right. Perhaps giving them both a common goal _will_ assist, after all.”

Leliana, ever the careful one, posed another question. “There will no doubt be in-fighting, and that poses a danger to everyone taking refuge in Haven. And how will we be able to manage two armies in such a small village?”

“We gather more resources,” you answered immediately. “Reach out to the nobles and people we’ve done favors for that would be willing to support diplomatic efforts. We can give the mages and templars options for working in our ranks - becoming soldiers, healers, or spies and the like - _anything._ They don’t have to fight if they don’t want to. Our people are exhausting themselves trying to hold the Inquisition together, and this would bolster our numbers enough to take off that strain. It would give us an advantage over whoever caused all this, and we’d be able to manage the rifts and help more with relief efforts. And as for keeping them separated…” You chewed on your lip briefly, thinking hard, but coming up with no true solution. So, you opted for humor. “...if nothing else, we can keep them on opposite sides of the lake.”

That seemed to startle a short laugh out of Cullen, and your eyes immediately snapped to him at the sound. His face glowed a more healthy pink, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes darkening in shadow as he shook his head with mirth - but you didn’t miss the wince he gave immediately thereafter, rubbing his temple with a subtle grimace. “I have doubts about the viability of this, I will admit, but...we do need more people in our ranks. And I, for one, am rather tired of their bloodshed as well.” He frowned lightly. “I cannot say that the templars are without fault, having seen firsthand the Order’s inner workings...but the mages need to be placated before they destroy Thedas, just as much as the templars need a good cuffing behind the ear.”

The relief that rippled through you almost felt like a bucket of warm water had been dumped over your head. “Thank you, Commander,” you said as sincerely as you could possibly manage.

Cassandra, who’d settled on rubbing the bridge of her nose with a tight expression after you’d finished speaking before, finally sighed. “I sense that it would be no use attempting to sway you, my lady,” she began. “Your intent is honorable. But, I must ask...what will you do if you fail? It is a long journey to Redcliffe from Haven, and we don’t yet know where the templars have hidden themselves. You might not be able to make it to both before the other rejects the Inquisition.”

“If I fail,” you began, softer, “then I pray that we can at least make an alliance with one. But I know where the templars are, and now that we have Master Dennett’s stable at our disposal, as well as much of the Hinterlands cleared of conflict, I have no doubts that I could make it to Therinfal with the right mounts and team with enough time to spare their judgment of our approaching the mages first.”

“Therinfal?” Leliana queried. “Therinfal Redoubt, in the Southern Hills? How do you know if they are there?”

You hoped that she wouldn’t find a loophole in your knowledge, swallowing nervously. “I heard murmurings at the Crossroads and in Redcliffe, in the brief time we were there,” you explained. “Nothing concrete, but I have little reason to doubt it - I imagine people fleeing from the fighting know a rebel templar army when they see one.”

The spymaster’s mouth pinched in characteristic suspicion, but she didn’t word as much. “You will need assistance in Redcliffe if you are to negotiate with such a large group of people - perhaps I could weed out any ill-intended contenders. And I could send scouts ahead to make sure the path is clear to Therinfal, to ensure that it is truly the templars’ current location. It would make the journey much faster and more assured.”

You nodded, genuinely thankful. “Thank you, Lady Nightingale.” You looked to Josephine. “We’ll need strong support in order to have Lucius even hear us. Do you think you could arrange…?”

Josephine was obviously already ticking off things in her head. “Yes, my lady Herald - I will set to work on it immediately.” She gave you a hesitant, worried look. “Though not everyone will support your decision, I must warn you. You may not have as much vocal support as you would by reaching out strictly to the templars, once word gets out.”

“I know. But any help at all would be appreciated, Lady Ambassador,” you smiled.

She nodded with a small smile and headed for her office quietly but quickly. You looked at Cullen, who had already turned to leave the chantry. “Commander, a moment.”

He stopped, gazing down at you with a lifted brow. Now a bit closer, you could see the underlying tension in the tendons flexing at his temples. “Yes?”

“If you sent your most experienced soldiers to support Leliana’s agents, it might make the process of clearing a road from Redcliffe to Therinfall much faster,” you said, lowering your voice in hopes that it would soothe whatever was plaguing him. His jaw loosened almost immediately, and you wondered... "Would you recommend traveling by land or sea to reach Therinfal from Redcliffe? We could get to Lothering and then go cross-country to the Southern Hills.”

“It would be more reliable to travel by land, because Lake Calenhad is unpredictable in its weather,” Cullen replied dutifully. “You can travel the West Road for the most part - though it will still be roughly a five-day journey.”

You nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate your input.” You hesitated, biting the inside of your lip, but Cassandra stepped up next to the both of you with a furrowed brow.

“If I may borrow the Commander for a moment, my lady Herald,” she said. You nodded, opening your mouth to reply, but she nearly herded him out of the chantry like a sheepdog in her haste, ignoring his indignant grunts of protest as she mumbled inarticulately to him. The door shut, and the hall was plunged into nothing but candlelight.

Leliana’s steps behind you were just shy of silent. “There is another matter.”

You turned. “Yes?”

She was back to looking grim. “Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished. I sent word to those in Orlais, but they have also disappeared. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even consider the idea they’re involved in all this, but the timing is...curious.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” you agreed.

“The others have disregarded my suspicion, but I cannot ignore it. Two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. If you have the opportunity, please seek him out - perhaps he can put my mind at ease.”

“And if he can’t?” you asked.

“Then there may be more going on than we thought,” she answered gravely, turning and slinking towards Josephine’s opened office door.

You took a deep breath once it was shut behind her, releasing it slowly. Pressure had begun to build behind your eyes, and you longed for a hot bath and half a day’s worth of sleep - but yet more work had to be done. You ruminated on what lay ahead in the coming days as you headed towards the tall chantry doors, the events that would happen beyond your control. As much as it made your heart ache, if you had to settle on an alliance only with the mages, at least you had the peace of mind knowing you’d be helping the bigger, more troubled group - but with everything within you, you hoped that you could help the templars, too. You thought of the men and women who would resist the red lyrium, that so willingly helped your inquisitors in the past, Ser Barris among them.

You shook your head. Worrying about it would only make you overthink it all - you would do all that you could, and you would have to accept that as your best.

You stepped back out into the midday sunlight, shivering as a strong gust of cold rushed to greet you, slipping into the gaps of your armor and settling into the folds of your underclothes. You hadn’t realized how warm the chantry was until now, nor how dark, but as your eyes adjusted to the brighter sunlight, you noticed that the softer notes of smoke, fir, and horse in the air were a little less overwhelming than the incense. Your mind felt clearer already.

You began to meander your way through the little village, checking on Threnn to make sure there were no new requisitions (with as many supplies you’d sent back from the Hinterlands, you hoped that Haven would be stable enough for a while), and considered grabbing your first meal of the day at the tavern. Your stomach grumbled as though on cue, and the faint whiffs of bread and stew certainly did you no favors in ignoring it. But greater than your hunger was your itching desire for a bath - riding on horseback for nearly four days cross-country in addition to climbing a mountain range hadn’t afforded you many opportunities to scrub the sweat and grime from your skin. You wondered how badly you reeked of horse and leather.

You knew there was a bathhouse somewhere in Haven, connected directly to a hot spring - you’d overheard some of the soldiers discussing it while running around with seemingly endless errands - but you didn’t really know where. You figured you could ask Varric, as he always made sure to keep himself well-groomed, and as you began to meander your way to where his tent was set up at the front of the village, you spotted Cassandra and Cullen standing near the gates, deep in hushed conversation. You slowed to a stop on the stairs, watching them carefully.

Cullen’s expression was tight, squinting against the sun, his shoulders squared and arms folded over his chest. He looked a little worse than before, but that could’ve just been the change in lighting - he’d gained a bit of color back from the flush of the wind, but it only made the circles under his eyes more obvious. His brow was furrowed deeply with whatever Cassandra was saying so animatedly, gesturing in quick, snappy movements, but he wasn’t arguing. He replied reluctantly, once she looked at him expectantly, dipping his head slightly and closing his eyes with a visible sigh. He rubbed at his forehead, the tension in his form bleeding weariness, and Cassandra seemed to notice - her demeanor softened minutely, and she brushed her fingers against his arm with a murmur. He nodded once, and she gestured towards the tavern. Never once did they see you leaning against the snowy stone rail as they went inside and disappeared from view.

“It’s a good thing you ended up being the Herald and not a spy for Leliana - there is nothing subtle in the way you eavesdrop.”

You jumped, face flushing, and looked down to see Varric smirking up at you from the bottom of the stairs. He chuckled, perceiving your embarrassment, and shook his head. “Everyone else is too busy to notice, don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” you protested, face pinching as you descended the stairs and followed him over to the campfire to catch its warmth. “And I wasn’t eavesdropping - I couldn’t even hear what they were saying.”

“You don’t have to hear a single word to get the gist of what someone is talking about,” Varric told you, settling onto a stool and drawing a flask from seemingly nowhere. “It’s all in the body language. See, it was obvious that Cullen asked Cassandra to do something that she vehemently refused, and she redirected to something else that made him clam up. They agreed to disagree when they decided to go eat.”

You blinked at him, rubbing your upper arms uncovered by your pauldrons to coax the gooseflesh to leave. “You got all that out of watching them?”

“You didn’t?” he asked, and you couldn’t find room to correct him. He shrugged, smiling. “Subtext.”

“I see your point,” you conceded. You glanced towards the tavern, pensive. You could eat first after all, see if they’d let you join them, but...you shook your head. You didn’t need to butt in where you weren’t welcome. You refocused on the dwarf taking a hearty swig of whatever fuel he was using to keep himself warm. “Do you know where the bathhouse is?”

“Over on the east side,” he answered, swallowing. “Why? I thought the servants draw your baths for you?”

“I don’t want to bother anybody,” you said with a soft sigh. “I just figured it would be easier.”

The dwarf nodded with a hum. “If I hadn’t already scraped all the crust off myself I’d be joining you,” he said wryly. He glanced you up and down, and you didn’t miss the slight frown that creased his features. “They didn’t even let you take off your armor before roping you into another meeting, huh?” He paused. “What’s the verdict, anyway?”

“I’m going to try to make an alliance with both the mages and the templars,” you said.

He laughed. “Ha! Good one. Really, though, which ones? The way you sympathize with the mages, I figure you’d opt for them.”

You sighed. “I’m not joking, Varric. Though I’m sure the others wish I was.”

“Oh.” He stared. “Shit. You’re serious.”

“Yes.” You rubbed your face wearily as you turned to the direction of your cabin. “Thanks for letting me know where it is. I’m going to peel all this off of me and hope I don’t dirty the spring and get a crap-load of food and hole up in bed so I can mentally prepare for our newest arrivals.”

“Hey.”

You stopped, looking at him.

“That’s more than I expected you would even try to do,” he admitted. “It’s optimistic, sure, but...wanting to help all of them, even when knowing they could spit in your face? That’s admirable. I’ll stand with you no matter what happens.” He shrugged a shoulder, despite the unexpected resoluteness of his tone. “And if they refuse, then they didn’t deserve your generosity anyway.”

The tense coil low in your stomach loosened, and you smiled. “Thanks, Varric.”

He dipped his head, offering you a wry grin. “The pleasure is all mine. Now go get clean, you stink.”

You laughed, turned, and headed for your cabin for a change of clothes.

Never would you have thought that Redcliffe castle would have felt so cold in the future that Alexius had cast you and your new companion into. The sickly red hues and the water and the darkness had always murmured humidity and heat in the back of your mind when you’d experienced it behind a screen, as if fire had permeated the air and left it simmering - but in truth, despite the layers of clothing and armor protecting your skin from the guards and demons you’d encountered thus far, the depths of the castle were cold and damp and made you shiver with every shift in the air. The constant rumbles and cries and creaks of the battered stone around you made you jumpy, the quiet hum of the red lyrium infesting the place filling the stagnant air and flooding your head with a strange, coppery, ozone-like scent. It was far more terrifying than it had been portrayed - and the demons and red lyrium-infested soldiers lurking the halls gave no remedy for it.

Dorian had managed to distract you thus far, keeping you focused on the task at hand, urging you to ignore the horror in favor of the search for information and solution - and now that Cassandra and Varric had joined you, you felt more at ease. The others had been added quickly, readying themselves with the fallen guards’ weapons and armor, looking truly alive and courageous for what must’ve been the first true rally in a very, very long time.

Still, there was one thing weighing heavily on the forefront of your mind, a question you’d never been able to answer for yourself. Your lips were pursed, brow tight but you couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“Cassandra,” you murmured, creeping through the eerily silent hallway on the pads of your feet. Your sword was heavy in your hand, glistening scarlet in what little glimpses of light there were. “What...what happened to the other advisors?”

“Leliana is here, somewhere,” she said, her chapped lips thinned as her eyes glowed dimly in the dark. “Josephine...did not last long - it was a blessing that her death was swift.”

You saw Blackwall’s eyes darken, but you made yourself concentrate on the seeker. “And...what of Cullen? Is he…?”

Her expression fell. “Dead? No. Though most of us wish he were, for his sake.”

Your heart sank, and you dropped your head to shake it briefly. Your limbs grew heavy, and your pace slowed to a stop. “They got to him, didn’t they?”

“He’s become one of those...things,” Sera sniffed, looking genuinely distraught with the entire situation in general, despite her present state. “The glowy, spiky things that can hardly talk.” You could almost see the unspoken fears lingering in her reddened eyes, ones she refused to give voice - that all of them refused to give voice. “Haven’t seen ‘im in a long time, though. Hope he succumbed. Would’a done ‘im mercy.”

“Any traces of the templar we knew are long gone,” Vivienne said bitterly. “He is enslaved by them, now. There is nothing left but a hollow husk that will eventually feed the beasts around him.”

The others didn’t seem to disagree. Your throat tightened.

“Come now,” Dorian said, just loud enough for you to hear. He placed a hand on your shoulder, turning you gently to lock your gaze to his stormy gray one. “If we are to fix all this, we best be moving.”

Biting the inside of your cheek and clutching the handle of your shield, you nodded hesitantly.

On you went, and you felt better that your circle had been returned to you - Cassandra, Varric, Solas, Sera, Vivienne, Blackwall, and Dorian stayed close to you as you crept through the castle, disposing of the men and women and demons who tried to stop you. Between the lot of you, it stayed quiet - stealth is easy when you have two archers and mages who can instantly snuff anyone caught unawares. You rescued Leliana soon after, and she began to guide you through the castle. The others seemed disturbed by her shift in character, but you couldn’t miss the tightness of her movements, the pinch of her expression, the steely resolve in her eyes. If you looked away for too long, she would stare at you. Within minutes, the lot of you entered the courtyard to find a rift - and a large group of red templars that you clearly recalled never having seen before.

And there, standing among them, you saw a tattered black and crimson mantle draped over jagged and deformed glowing shoulders, warped with pauldrons and gnarled metal, crystals jutting out of flesh and bone like thorns. Unkempt blond hair, scarred skin, dark and angry, empty eyes honed in on you and pierced you like a spear.

A garbled, chillingly grotesque voice poured forth from once smiling lips like venom. “Attack!”

Your heart took a nosedive for your abdomen and you braced yourself, raising your shield and deflecting a blast of fire from a rage demon quickly burning its way across the deadened yard. Cassandra had already formed a blockade in front of you, raising her shields to cover the mages and archers. Blackwall lunged forward, the massive greatsword clutched in his fists cleaving through demons and echoes of humans alike - blood pooled on the ground like wine.

Your gaze found Cassandra’s, but before you could even open your mouth, she nodded - perhaps your eyes spoke better than your words ever had. “We will cover you.”

You clenched your teeth and turned your attention to the fight closing in - your sword cut through the stragglers that Blackwall left behind, already halfway across the courtyard, and you were quick to back him up - you found yourself pushed into his legs by a terror slashing at you, and he was quick to reach back and steady you into position. With him protecting your blindside and the others making formation, it did not take long to force the demons back through the rift - and while they distracted the templars, you reached up and leaned into the magnetic pull making your hand prickle with needles. Your eyes ached against the blinding green light, and you held your breath as the rift began to mend itself - you could feel it, the thrum traveling up your arm, coiling in your shoulder, getting ready to shotgun back out-

“Herald!”

You saw the blow coming before you felt it.

The breath rushed from your lungs as you were knocked to the ground, the tall, heavy shield of your assailant crushing you against debris and bone - a whine of pain leaked from your throat, and as your equilibrium caught up with you, you realized your sword was no longer in your hand.

“You are too late,” curled a hot, scratchy breath over your ear. "Far too late."

Remembering the long hours spent in the evenings after setting up camp forcing Cassandra to let you go or get off of you, your mind blanked with instinct - you gathered your limbs beneath you as best you were able and pushed up and back. The weight slid from your body and you heard your assailant grunt with the impact. You scrabbled onto your knees and lunged for the familiar gleam of iron just out of arm’s reach, but a hand grabbing your ankle like a vice stopped your momentum and dropped your face into the ground. Dazed, you tried kicking back against the inhumanly strong grip, but the other hand grabbed at your sword belt and yanked you further back along the ground. A plated knee planted itself into the small of your back, your cuirass the only thing keeping it from crushing your spine. You buckled from the pressure, helpless as the monster gathered himself over you, gripping your hair and tugging your head up harshly. Hot, dripping fluid made your lips sticky, trickling into your mouth as you gasped for air against his weight, reaching back to try to dislodge his fingers.

Through the tears of pain and desperation welling in your eyes, you saw that your circle was preoccupied with another wave of demons, bigger than the first. You hadn’t managed to close the rift before being dismantled like an old wooden chair.

“See this?” he hissed, cold lips brushing the shell of your ear. Something soft brushed your neck, long like plumage but too fine, and you sucked in a shallow breath because all of a sudden you were struggling to breathe, your sight was blurring rapidly, and you realized that his other hand had moved to grip your throat. But with that breath came lingering notes that were familiar, somewhere in the back of your mind, musky but sweet, like elderflowers and oakmo- “Your ignorance and arrogance die with you, traitor.”

Your heart pounded against the inside of your ribs, wanting to fight, wanting to flee, your ears ringing and tears spilling over your dirtied cheeks and moistening the earth below you for the first time in ages. The others couldn’t get to you, having hunkered closer to keep the demons at bay - they were almost being forced down the stairwell now, and you thought you saw Cassandra trying to push through.

“Why did you betray us?”

You stilled, breath catching and blood chilling.

“You left us,” the man breathed, voice tight and raspy and much softer than it had been seconds prior. “You left us when we needed you most. You let the Elder One break us, take Thedas. _Why?_ ”

“I didn’t mean to,” you choked out, high and cracked and barely a whisper. You could barely see anymore. “I didn’t _want_ to, I-” You clenched your eyes shut, feeling tears and blood mingling on the scuffed flesh of your chin, stinging like a burn. “-I’m trying to _fix_ it!”

For a long, breathless moment, there was silence, stillness, heat and cold trapped between the scant few inches between your body and his. Then, all at once, the weight lifted. You were left gasping, prostrate, limbs numbed, body aching, face stinging as you tried to recover - but you managed to roll over, stiff, gazing up against the darkness in the sky at the supernatural crimson light highlighting the face staring down at you.

“I had hoped you would,” he said, so softly you almost missed it. He dropped his head, defeated, concealing it in shadow. “But I lost faith.”

The first thing you did once you caught your breath was sit up and reach towards the rift, easier to seal now that half the work had been done, shuddering as the energy rushed from you, leaving your body even heavier than before. The second thing you did was stumble to your feet and try to throw your arms as best you could around the mangled, worryingly thin frame of the man you’d left behind in Haven - but he caught your wrists and held you back, body stiff and expression pinched.

You couldn’t stop the tears wringing themselves from your eyes, the lone sob you allowed to wrench your breath out of your lungs, as you dropped your face into the gaping sweep of your scarf. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t…” Your fingers curled into fists, your knuckles protesting the grind. It was so much _worse_ than you could ever have imagined. “ _Cullen._ ”

He remained stiff for a few heartbeats, rigid and unyielding. You wonder how long it’d been since he’d been touched by another human being, with how swiftly, unthinkingly he’d acted. Then, slowly, jerkingly, he uncurled his fingers and lowered your arms carefully, his grasp lingering for a heartbeat before finally, he let go.

“You haven’t much time,” he croaked. “They know you’re here. I...managed to…” He grimaced, swaying a bit on his feet and pressing a palm to his faintly glowing temple. He glanced around at the bodies of what once were templars scattered on the ground, gaze growing distant. “I...I didn’t know if I would be able to resist, even after...but…I apologize for hurting you.”

God, he truly looked awful. The lyrium seemed to be fused with his spine, growing ever upwards, surrounding his head in a dark echo of a jagged halo. You could barely recognize his face anymore because of the glowing veins and burns and scars littering it - but your eyes honed in on the single scar on his upper lip, still somehow untouched. Despite everything...his resolve had held through. Perhaps he’d hid within himself until the right time.

You really didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened to him beyond the physical evidence before you.

“You’re still with us,” you told him, making him blink slowly, seeming to come back to himself. “He hasn’t stolen you from me yet.”

And, for the briefest of moments, Cullen’s lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile.

“Herald!”

Blackwall was limping, Sera was low on arrows, and Vivienne looked close to comatose, but your circle still held their heads high as they hurried back over to you. Cassandra’s eyes locked onto your accomplice, softening in relief. “Cullen. I had thought…”

“They are easier to fool than one would expect,” he managed. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to fight back, so I...I waited.” His attention shifted over to you, as you regathered your weapons. “I had begun to think I would run out of time - of which, we have little.” He gestured towards the castle, brows furrowing. “I will show you to Alexius. But, I must warn you...this lyrium, it…I may do something that I - will regret. Resistance is nearly impossible.” His expression hardened. “If I am ordered, I might-”

“You won’t,” Cassandra told him firmly. “Have more faith in your strength, old friend - it has yet to fail you.”

Wordlessly, after a moment of hesitation, Cullen nodded and turned.

You stepped close to him as you reentered the castle, stretching out as the hallways grew narrow. At his admission of requiring freshly harvested red lyrium to unlock the door, the circle split up to conquer - you stayed close, letting the others go on, feeling inexplicably more assured as you matched stride with him, just behind his shield.

He slowed his pace when you both reached a small side room, leading up to a stairwell. It was dim, but had just enough light that you could see the color of his hair as he rounded on you and gripped your arm with a murmur of your name. He struggled to find words after that, mouth working, eyes shifting. “...I...you...it's…” He exhaled heavily, glancing over your shoulder warily. “I...cannot begin to say what I want to, except that I am sorry for failing you.” Your brows furrowed, but when you opened your mouth he shook his head. “We don’t have time to deliberate. _Maker._ ” He let out a breathless, humorless laugh. “Time was something we never had, was it?”

You blinked, confused. “Cullen...”

“Please. Allow me this.” You stilled in shock when his other hand grasped your free arm and drew you against his breastplate with a tenderness you did not expect. He burrowed his face into your hair, hunching over you and breathing in deeply. “Allow me my last moment of peace.”

You held your breath, stomach tightening, closing your eyes, not sure where to put your hands except at his sides. You bit your lip briefly. “I...I’m so, so sorry you’ve gone through this, Cullen. From the bottom of my heart, I can’t begin to tell you everything...”

“Then don’t,” he murmured. He squeezed you tightly, shaking minutely. “You needn’t explain anything to a monster of a man like me.”

“You’re not a monster,” you whispered immediately.

He only shook his head. “If only you truly knew. I would rather you didn’t.”

Just when you’d gathered the strength to return his unexpected embrace, he pulled back, on alert once more. He hesitated. Then, he scooped your hands into his and pressed a chaste kiss to your bruised knuckles. “When you fix this,” he said softly, “when you go back to the man I used to be...don’t allow him to fail in telling you that you're-”

A snarl suddenly filled the stone room and a wraith burst from the hall, frothing at the mouth. Before you had time to react Cullen pushed you behind him, lifting his shield to bash the demon away, cutting its head off its shoulders in one fell swing. Its corpse crumpled to the ground, and the silence once again felt eerie. You tried not to gag as Cullen jerked the red lyrium pendant from the creature’s neck, swiping its blood onto his grimey trousers. Whatever tenderness that had been revived in him had disappeared in the blink of an eye, his expression taciturn once more as he turned back to you and gestured towards the stairwell. “We must go, before others find us.”

You wanted to say everything, or nothing, or something, but didn’t know how. So you settled for a nod and a soft ‘alright’.

It seemed to rush by after that, time only slowing down in the brief moments where Cullen would tug you into his side and hide you both from sight around the corner from a group of passing guards, or glance down at you to make sure you were keeping pace. He would eye you up and down when he thought you weren’t aware, likely making sure you were uninjured. But you couldn’t linger - you had a job to do.

Everything after that seemed to happen so fast. Too fast, like water spilling out of your fingers. Alexius was dead, and Felix, and Dorian was already tinkering with the amulet. Alexius had tried to order Cullen to attack you, and for a moment Cullen's eyes had blanked and you had felt a terror so cold coil in your belly you thought it had froze - but he'd refused it, rejected it, and had used a holy smite to suppress the magister's abilities as an answer.

“We’ll hold the main door - but once they break through, it’s all you, Nightingale.”

“There has to be another way,” you breathed, eyes misting over. “I can’t leave you behind. I can’t let you-”

“Look at us,” Leliana told you, “we’re already dead. The only way we’ll live is if this day never comes. Cast your spell - you have as much time as I have arrows.”

“Get back to where you belong, boss,” Varric said with a grim smile. “I don’t think you want to let this ending stick.”

The rest nodded in agreement, murmuring their own statements of assent - and just like that, they filed for the door, weapons drawn, faces determined, fiery and resolute. Cullen’s hand had yet to move from your arm, having helped you to your feet after being knocked over by Alexius’ dying magic. It creaked shut, a deep note of finality that thrummed deep in your chest.

You turned your gaze up to Cullen’s, swallowing thickly. “I won't let this happen,” you whispered.

The barest smirk made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I will hold you to that, my lady.” He redrew his sword, head high, and smiled at you with so much warmth it almost made you choke on your own heart, doing its damndest to lodge itself in your throat. “For the days I missed,” he murmured, for your ears only, “I shed my blood joyfully. Go back. Only you can solve this.” He dipped his chin, expression faltering for a heartbeat - just long enough that you saw it. “And for what it is worth...I hope he succeeds where I did not.”

“If we’re to do this, it has to be now!” Dorian called, the amulet glowing, suspended between his hands. He opened his mouth to speak again, but there was a gargantuan _bang_ beyond the door that made you jump. Cullen straightened, moving swiftly to Leliana’s side. They exchanged a glance, nodded, and both drew into their stances.

“‘Though darkness closes,’” they began to chant in unison, as you eased your way up the stairs onto the platform. “‘I am shielded by flame.’”

You bit your lip to keep from yelping when the door burst open, soldiers and demons alike stepping into the throne room. Your heart twisted when a terror tossed Varric’s limp body carelessly to the ground. You thought you saw the others scattered on the floor beyond. You fought the bile rising in your throat.

All at once, Cullen let out a war-cry, and Leliana loosed her first arrow. “‘Andraste, guide me - Maker, take me to your side!’”

One by one, the enemies fell. Cullen snarled like a war hound, cleaving through them effortlessly, Leliana picking off the ones at his flanks. You watched, heaving for breath, as a greater terror leaped up from the shimmering floor and sent Cullen flying back. When he landed, you saw that the blow had shattered his cuirass - and blood, glowing and sickly, began to pool from his belly. Still, he rose, teeth bared, plowing through the demon sword first, ripping it in half, sending its body away - only for it to be replaced by a swarm of smaller terrors. Leliana was struck, but she fought her way towards the fallen commander, and a scream ripped itself from your chest when you saw Cullen’s body fall.

You were already moving back towards the steps before Dorian caught your arm, jerking you back to reality. “You move, and we all die!”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force the image of Cullen’s slackened face, glazed eyes out of your head. Tried, and failed.

Before you knew it, Dorian was pulling you forward, quickly, bundling you into his arms, and then, like the first time, there was nothing - no sound, no light, no feeling. Forever and for a heartbeat, all was nothing. Then, all was everything once more.

Alexius fell to his knees, despondent.

Dorian still gripped your arm to steady you. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

You clenched your teeth and forced your tears away.

“You doing alright, Sibyl?”

You blinked, looking down from the brazier dangling from the inner post of your tent, spotting Varric peeking through the flaps.

“Did you finally figure out what to call me?” you asked instead, unable to help but smile, more than a little flattered. He’d been testing out different names just within earshot for days now, the countryside seeming to roll on and on and on, only interrupted by the inevitable banter that oftentimes he started - this one seemed...good. Nice. It felt right.

“Surprisingly, the seeker suggested it,” he said, looking quite pleased in himself as he stepped into your tent wielding a bottle of wine and a small wheel of cheese. “I guess her knowledge has done us _some_ good.”

“Maker forbid I go without my own moniker,” you chuckled. Truth be told, as silly as it sounded...it made you feel a little more grounded to this Thedas, whatever you would end up making of it. Made you feel more like you were a part. “I’ll need to go by _something_ whenever you inevitably make a biography of all my plights.”

Varric laughed, shaking his head, setting up the snack (your meager dinner, you realized, inwardly groaning at your forgetfulness) on the small foldable table next to your cot. He drew a knife from seemingly nowhere and began to cut a few thin wedges and laid them artfully before you, next to the papers strewn across the majority of its surface. The ink was still damp, but your quill lay forgotten. He sobered some as he glanced over the words, almost discrete. “Trying to write that report for Nightingale?”

“Keyword, there,” you sighed, shoulders slumping. You took a slice of cheese and chewed on it despondently. “I was...trying to find the words.”

“I know it’s a hell of a lot harder for you, being the one that...” He cleared his throat, picking your empty goblet up from the ground and brushing it off before pouring a hefty four fingers of wine into it and pressing it into your free hand. “But don’t worry about it. You can wait ‘til we get back to Haven, if you’d like.”

“But they need to know what to expect, with the mages and…” You exhaled tightly, trying to rub the tension out from behind your eyes. “...I...guess you’re right. I’ll save the details for...later. But they’ll need to prepare accordingly - hopefully Dorian’ll be able to wrangle all the mages together until they get to Haven.” You bit your lip, rolling the polished clay cup between your palms in hopes of it grounding you. The scent of fermentation filled your nose, and you took a sip of the white experimentally. You smacked your lips, surprised. “Is that...cinnamon?”

“Yep. Straight from Rivain.” He poured himself some in his own tin cup, clinking your cups together cheekily and taking a long draught. “I...may or may not have…”

You froze, the rim halfway to your lips. “You didn’t.”

He grinned, toothy and wide. “I did.”

“Oh, no,” you whispered, trying your best to smother your laughter. “What’ll I do if I get an angry letter from the arl of Redcliffe? What if that was his _favorite_ bottle, Varric?”

“Then I suppose we’ll get arrested for treason,” he quipped, sipping noisily without a care, “but there were twenty of its kind in that cellar. I’m sure he won’t miss one.”

You fell into a giggling fit, pressing your hand over your mouth, all the tension seeming to roll off your shoulders gradually. How and when he’d managed to accomplish petty theft of a noble right under everyone’s noses would be a secret you were sure you’d never understand - though it was good enough that you couldn’t really scold him with feeling.

Maybe he’d known just how to get you to crack before you imploded under the pressure. He seemed to be very good at that, with just about everybody.

Your laughter died down eventually, and Varric swiped at the corners of his eyes before smacking down a wedge of cheese. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it,” he said conversationally, swirling his cup absently, “but should you ever change your mind...you know where to find me.”

Your expression softened, and you tentatively reached out to squeeze his shoulder to make him meet your gaze. “Thank you, Varric. Really.”

He gave you a lopsided smile. “No problem, Sibyl. It’s what I’m here for.”

You sipped a bit of wine, debating. You gave him a tentative look. “Would you...tell me a story?” Anything to get your mind off the dreams you'd been having.

His brows rose. “Me? Weaving a tale of dubious factuality?” He grinned cheekily. “ _That_ I can do.”


	3. The Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fairly quicker update since I had the majority of this chapter written and just had to tweak it a bit to fit the previous one better. After this I don’t have as much written, so it’ll take a bit longer to post - but I'm a bit proud of this chapter overall.  
> And yes, I pulled the ‘why not both?’ logic with the mages and templars. Corypheus ain’t gonna be happy. In case anyone is confused, since the Herald recruited the mages first, Cole sensed their need for help and went ahead and came to Haven, and thus why he wasn’t able to help the Herald avoid the Envy demon at Therinal. (I hope the Mark being a sort of pocket Fade makes sense.)

The chantry smelled strongly of incense and perfume, warm candlelight making shadows dance across the archways and floor. It was both foreign and achingly familiar - an old feeling in a new place - and Cullen’s only wish was that he could leave. The migraine he’d been woken with long before daylight had yet to dissipate, no matter how much he’d tried rubbing the tension out of his temples. He’d even bitten back his pride and had gone to Adan for some herbs to chew. And while the relative darkness of the building was a welcome relief, the smell was only bringing back memories of a vastly empty chapel far, far away, likely reduced to rubble and overgrowth by now - one he never wished to remember.

But one of Leliana’s agents had reported back with reports of the Redcliffe’s events in tow, and she had insisted that he and Josephine be briefed once his drills and her meetings with the visiting nobility were complete.

He’d retreated to a dark corner to stew and rest his aching eyes while waiting for them. Leaned against the wall, he’d raised his shoulders to hide the lower half of his clammy face with his mantle. The hints of sword-polish, leather, and elfroot seemed to cling to the fur tickling his nose, a reprieve no matter how small from the incense clouding the air. He could hear Josephine talking with someone he didn’t recognize in her office, muffled by the door, and Leliana was still outside going over the papers in her tent.

He dreaded the inevitably long stretch of time looming before him.

The chantry doors creaked open and he cracked his eyes open to peer around the pillar to his left, only to squint and hiss under his breath as brilliant white sunlight invaded the hall. And then it was gone, the slam of the heavy old wood making him wince, and he stepped onto the crushed crimson velvet just in time to watch Leliana stroll in with one raven on either shoulder.

“Is Josephine finished speaking with Comte Belliard?” she inquired, her soft-spoken tone in the hushed chantry a welcome reprieve from the ringing in his ears.

Cullen joined stride with her, headed for the war room. He hoped he didn’t look too terribly sweaty - between the migraine and the exercises he’d performed early that morning in an attempt to bash it with brute force, he was sure he looked worse than a bogfisher on a hot day.

“Not yet,” he grumbled, glancing at the office door in question. Shadows flickered in the narrow slat beneath it. “I swear he’s taken an hour of her time.”

“He cherishes his words as gold, and a gift to any that hear them,” Leliana replied smoothly.

Cullen stopped just short of the war room, straightening and crossing his arms. He leaned against the jamb. “Closer to pyrite with how freely he gives them.”

Leliana gave him a look, just as the door opened and the Orlesian noble in question strutted out mid-sentence. “...and I should think, Lady Ambassador, that the accommodations here be less...shall we say...quaint? How do you expect to entertain Thedas’ elite if they haven’t their own baths?”

“Seeing as we have received little in the way of luxurious donations,” Josephine answered smoothly, only the slight tick to the side of her mouth indicated irritation, “I am afraid to say that we are forced to use only what we have readily available.”

The comte scoffed, tilting his head back to peer down at the Antivan over his grotesquely hooked nose. His mask was horrendously polished, reflecting every bit of firelight near him. Cullen tried his best not to squint. “Well. I should see that you have proper furnishings to house future visitors, lest they endure the barbaric horrors I have. Good day, Lady Montilyet.”

“Thank you for your graciousness,” she returned, curtseying easily. She only let out a soft sigh when he exited the chantry. “One would think that we had kept him in the dungeons.”

“I take it he enjoyed his stay?” Leliana queried, a subtle glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

“Oh, yes,” Josephine replied, but whether she was being sincere or facetious to the point of believability Cullen wasn’t sure. “Considering he lost a large purse of coin at the Singing Maiden last night to our soldiers at Wicked Grace.”

Cullen cleared his throat, deciding not to comment on the fact that it had been one of his lieutenants to just short of rob the intoxicated noble. He’d promised to turn it in to the coffers, the only reward he’d needed being the comte’s expression the next morning upon trying to buy breakfast and finding his pockets empty. “Shall we get on with it? I’ve trebuchets to calibrate.”

“Of course,” Josephine said lightly, offering him an apologetic smile. “You have my apologies for making you wait.”

Cullen dismissed it, and held the door open for the two women to walk into the war room. They took their places and watched Leliana expectantly as she unraveled the narrow curls of paper bearing news from the Herald’s traveling band. “The first is from Cassandra,” she began, “simply a report of the recruitment of Gray Warden Gordon Blackwall into the Inquisition’s forces and the Herald’s circle. He joined them on their travels, effectively immediately.”

Cullen gestured for it when she was through, fetching the stamp of his commander’s sigil from his pocket and dipping it into the inkpad Josephine handed to him before marking it and tucking it away for filing later.

The next report she uncurled was considerably longer, two or three sheets rolled together. Cullen recognized your handwriting. “This is a debrief from the Herald on the events that transpired at Redcliffe castle,” she continued. “I delegated to read it beforehand to save time.” Her expression darkened. “It will sound difficult to believe, but she swears to its truth.”

“Odd things seem to follow her, don’t they?” Cullen mused quietly.

“As her report is written,” the spymaster said, “she and her circle approached Grand Enchantress Fiona in the Gull and Lantern to negotiate the terms of the apostate mage party, upon which they discovered infiltration by Magister Gereon Alexius, who claimed that Fiona pledged allegiance to his authority and gave her party’s rights to him and the Imperium.”

Cullen frowned deeply. “She was right.”

Josephine paled. “I expected something like this to happen, but...why Tevinter?”

“They were later brought into the castle for the appointed meeting for further negotiations,” Leliana continued, “when Magister Alexius performed time-altering magic to send the Herald and her informant one year into the future in hopes of ridding their threat to his power.” She gave them both a moment to absorb the seemingly impossible information, letting them stew on it open-mouthed before continuing carefully. “According to this future, Thedas had fallen into chaos. Alexius was working under the grandstanding machinations of the so-named Elder One, who had arranged to absorb both the apostates and the rebel templars into his ranks to take over the world.”

“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen bit out, his stomach pitching for the floor. Josephine was covering her mouth, looking close to illness.

“With the help of the members of her circle in this future and her informant, the Herald retrieved the amulet Alexius used to warp time and used it to return to the same moment from which he’d sent them. He and his men were apprehended shortly thereafter by Queen Anora and her soldiers for their treachery, and his son Felix was sent back to Tevinter as mercy for his aid. The Herald arranged for the mages to be brought under the Inquisition’s authority, as they are officially exempt from Fereldan protection, and are under the temporary command of Dorian Pavus of Tevinter, her informant, as they travel to Haven.” Leliana rolled the papers up, placing them in her cloak. “They should arrive here in a few days.”

“She actually did it,” Josephine murmured, looking torn between delight and worry.

“But...time magic?” Cullen questioned dubiously, mind reeling. “Surely it was some trick of the Fade? A complex spell that altered their surroundings, perhaps?”

“The Herald swears that she was certain, and has this Dorian Pavus as her witness.” Leliana frowned faintly. “She noted that she would give a proper debriefing once she returns from Therinfal Redoubt.”

“So she is headed there, then?” he mused, turning his gaze down to the map below them. His eyes traced the West Road to the marker they’d placed upon the keep’s location. “How long?”

“They were two days out when my scout left them to report in,” the Orlesian said. “They should be there tomorrow.” She looked to Josephine. “The nobles you contacted…”

“Should already be there,” the Antivan responded. “I was unable to get as many to go, seeing as the Herald insisted upon involving herself with the apostates, but...I think it will be enough.”

“It will have to be.” Cullen folded his arms over his chest. “She trusted that Tevine to bring the mages here? How are we to know that he won’t recruit them into the Imperium as well?”

“She only said that she trusts him implicitly, and that he proved his intentions were pure when he saved her life,” Leliana replied. Her eyes gleamed with interest. “It would be advantageous to have an eye into the Imperium during all this.”

“Not to mention dangerous.” He shook his head. “I suppose we shall have to see for ourselves what he’s like.”

“In the meantime,” Josephine began, “we will have to begin preparations for the mages at once, if we are hoping to house them all here. We should receive the necessary supplies tomorrow. Shall I delegate this task to you and your men, Commander, seeing as you have the most experience with mages between the three of us?”

Cullen fought the icy curl in the pit of his belly at the thought of having so many mages in one place, so close to him. He swallowed, and avoided Leliana’s gaze. “It will be good practice for my men if we plan to expand Haven for the Inquisition,” he said absently. “I’ll see that it’s done.”

Josephine smiled at him. “Thank you. I will ensure you have all that you need.”

He nodded, and Leliana handed each of them a couple more reports folded up delicately. “The rest of these matters are minute, and can be addressed at your leisure. The Herald has earned favor with the people of Ferelden in the places they have stopped.” She let out a quiet chuckle. “It seems that the events at Redcliffe did not dampen her ardor for helping those in need.”

“That is good, at least,” he mused, though his gut clenched inexplicably. He wondered what it would even have been like, to see something so horrific…and he had the feeling that you had spared many details from your report. He wondered if you were feeling all right.

“That is all I have to give you,” Leliana concluded. “I will let you get back to your duties.”

“Let us know when we receive word on Therinfal,” Josephine requested anxiously. “I worry how the templars may react if they receive word before she gets there.”

Cullen dreaded it.

He sought Rylen out once he left the chantry, finding him in the forge talking jovially with Harritt about the quality of the steel in the surrounding mountainside. Now that the Breach had been sealed, many of the miners in Haven had returned to their work, giving a portion of their ores to the Inquisition as thanks, and Harritt and his men were hard at work forging the weapons and supplies that the burgeoning force required.

“Excuse me,” he said, drawing their attention. The heat pouring from the numerous forges made his skin prickle with sweat. “I need to borrow Captain Rylen for an important matter.”

“I was about to kick ‘im out anyway,” the blacksmith groused. “Distracting my men like he is. We’ll never get any of these requisitions done.”

Rylen laughed. “Like you aren’t appreciatin’ the advice I’m givin’ ya for those blades o’yours. I see how it is!”

Harritt rolled his eyes, and Rylen followed Cullen back out into the open air, chuckling all the while. Cullen took a deep breath of the cold mountain air, swiping his brow discreetly. “I need your help, Rylen.”

“Aye, as ya always do.” He grinned impishly. “Finally decidin’ on wooin’ that lass at the tavern? I wondered how long it’d take ya to notice the eyes she’s been sendin’ your way.”

Cullen grimaced and sighed in agitation. “No. I’m having to plan for an incoming group of mages.”

Rylen’s expression was quick to shift into alarm. “Are they launching an attack?”

“No, no, they’re-” Cullen rubbed his face. His temples began to throb harder than before. “-they’re civilians. The Herald recruited the apostates into the Inquisition. They should be here in a few days, and we need a place to put them.”

“Ah. I’d heard murmurings about that.” Rylen frowned lightly. “You think that’ll work out?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” Cullen confessed. “But the Herald seems to think it will. I was given the task of handling it.”

“Hmm.” Rylen gestured towards the flat where the soldiers’ camp was. “I’ve got paper in my tent. We can draw up some designs and see what works.” He grinned. “But you’ll have to buy me dinner in exchange for the extra work, Commander.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, and reluctantly headed for the Singing Maiden. Balancing two trays of food was a bit of a challenge, but by the time he made it back to Rylen’s tent the templar had cleared his desk to allow room on either side of the large sheets of paper stacked in the middle. He had a couple of quills and sticks of charcoal ready, already loosely sketching the perimeter of Haven and the lake. He grinned up at Cullen as he put the trays down, grabbing a roll and tearing into it without prompt. “I offer you my thanks, Commander. I was worried I’d wither away.”

“You are in no danger of that in the slightest,” Cullen snipped back, feeling the corner of his mouth tug outwards at Rylen’s exaggerated offended expression. He pulled up a stool and sat, stretching his back and letting out a sigh as his spine crackled all the way down. He took a sip of mead to wet his chapped lips, watching as his second in command blocked in the shapes of the surrounding topography. “I have to ask...how do you think our templars will react to the apostates’ presence?”

“Some won’t mind, as they realize the wisdom in the Herald’s decision, as well as the apostates’ troubled situation,” Rylen answered absently, still chewing. “But a lot of ‘em won’t like it. They’ve lost more than a few brothers-in-arms in all the fightin’, even if the ones provokin’ the fights were bein’ foolish.”

“As have we all,” Cullen sighed. He braced his fist against his mouth, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The scents of the food were making his stomach tighten. “I should like to keep them a good distance away from the village and the soldiers, but not too far that we can’t reach them in time for emergencies.”

“I’ll let you draw the plans,” Rylen told him, “I’m just keepin’ you from bringin’ an artistic atrocity into the world. Again.”

The Commander gave him a scowl. “My artistic capabilities are perfectly fine, thank you.”

The Starkhaven’s brows disappeared under the dampened, thick locks of hair that had been tossed by his helmet, his dubious eyes rounding comically as he let out a drawn puff of breath. Cullen reached down to the tray just to flick a grape at him, which the other man caught in his mouth and began to chew unprompted with an infuriating cheshire grin. Cullen opted for giving him a rather unholy gesture instead of a physical assault.

The templar had a youthful, playful demeanor when his sober one was unneeded - it reminded Cullen of the lighter, better memories of his youth, tussling with the other trainees his age and exchanging banter and trash talk that would have made the chantry sisters punish them for weeks if they have heard. Rylen had been...a welcome companion, back in Kirkwall, after Meredith’s death. He had stayed glued to Cullen’s side ever since, seemingly convinced that he needed to keep the knight-commander in his sights at all times lest he...Cullen wasn’t sure. Those had been dark days in Kirkwall’s history, and no one had gone unaffected. The Starkhaven man had rubbed Cullen’s feathers the wrong way at first, admittedly, with his easy-going nature and lax attitude when away from recovery efforts - but his persistence and integrity had won Cullen over before long.

He couldn’t say he regretted a single moment of their companionship - Cullen didn’t feel that he’d had such a friend in a very, very long time.

Rylen turned the sheet of paper towards Cullen, drawing him from his thoughts. The Fereldan uncapped an inkwell and dipped the newly-cut quill into it, blotted it, and began to loosely mark the boundaries on the west side of the lake that they could spare. The mages would need a few buildings for their children, elderly, and sickly, as well as for their inevitable tidal wave of belongings and paraphernalia - those would be built closer to the ravine walls to shelter them from the weather and wind and cold. Harvestmere was drawing to a rapid close, and with it would soon bring the full force of winter - Cullen dreaded the effects it would have on the village, its people, and his soldiers.

“You’re not eatin’.”

Cullen grunted, trying to hold his hand level as he moved to mark the rows of tents they would set up as a temporary means of shelter, until he could acquire more resources for proper dwellings.

“Did ya really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” the commander groused, brows furrowing in concentration. “I’m a bit busy to eat, at the moment.”

He felt Rylen’s eyes on him, making him shift on the stool in discomfort. Once he was finished marking the tent locations, he rested his gloved hand to the side, tilting his head and considering what else would be necessary. A well, perhaps, and a central bonfire to keep the chill away. The lake would be frozen for quite a while, and he wanted to reduce their use of fire to melt it as much as possible. He chewed on the inside of his lip, so absorbed in his mental arrangements, that he didn’t notice Rylen holding out a roll to him until he shoved it into his face.

“What!” Cullen finally snapped, leaning back to glare at the other man with anger flaring up hot and agitated in his chest.

Rylen met his gaze head-on, unflinching, looking unimpressed. He simply continued to hold out the piece of buttered bread to him. “You need to eat, Cullen.”

The Fereldan refused to reply at first, temper simmering just below his skin, but an inkling of guilt began to worm its way past the heat and made his expression falter into shame. Cullen poked the quill into the inkwell, taking the roll gingerly and taking a tentative bite and enjoying the taste before swallowing warily. When his stomach didn’t immediately revolt, he took another.

“How did you know?” he asked quietly, dropping his gaze to the map and trying to ignore his guilt. Rylen only wanted to help, and...he only answered with the irritability that had been plaguing him incessantly because of his conflicting hunger and nausea.

“Who do you think has to kick the snow over your vomit after you slink away from the drills when you think no one’s lookin’?” Rylen asked him, expression gentling now that Cullen had finally given in. “I can see it in your face, Cullen - you hadn’t been eatin’ well, have ya?”

“Can’t keep anything down,” the commander mumbled, finishing off the breath with a swig of mead and opting for a chunk of cheese next. It was mild but smooth on his tongue. “I would if I could, believe me.”

Rylen hummed. “I needn’t ask if you’ve been takin’ herbs, with how frequently I see you go towards Adan’s. Have you tried tea?”

“No.” Honestly, he hadn’t really thought about the possibility. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good, hot cup sheerly for the pleasure of it, much less for its medicinal purposes.

“Tell ‘im your symptoms and ask for some - I’m sure they’ll have somethin’ that’d help.”

Cullen nodded to appease his second in command. “Fine.” He popped the rest of the cheese into his mouth and pointed to the treeline to the west of the mages’ camp. “Now...what do you think we should do with the excess lumber?”

He returned to his tent hours later, having spent much more time in his second’s tent than he had intended. Somehow, after having gone through a few different layouts of the apostates' camp and finally settling on one design they felt would suffice (which would still need approval from Josephine and Leliana before his men could begin construction), the Starkhaven man had drawn him into a long conversation to catch up, since the Breach had stolen much of their free time. Cullen, having almost downed the massive tankard of mead, hadn’t perceived the passage of time - he had missed doing nothing, loathe as he was to be idle in hand or mind, but it’d been nice in the end, and he still couldn’t say he regretted it.

He felt full and warm and content for the first time in ages, it seemed like. His headache was all but gone, and while his stomach cramped a little, he figured it was because he ended up eating most of the food piled on the tray (absentmindedly, he had realized with some embarrassment when he’d noted that the cheese was all gone), more than he had in days. His mind was fuzzy, his limbs pleasantly tingling, and he almost didn’t feel his joints ache when he sat on his cot heavily and leaned over to pull off his boots and set them to the side.

His gloves, mantle, cuirass, vambraces, couters, rerebraces, and pauldrons were soon to follow, landing methodically upon the canvas-covered floor of his tent with muffled clanks. He wormed his way out of his soft leather trousers and outershirt, left in his plain woolen breeches and the pale cotton undershirt. He pulled his legs up and under the bear pelt and...the heavy wool quilt that had been tucked under it?

He touched the material, feeling its scratchiness and hand-woven make with his bared fingers, and wondered how in the Maker’s name it had ended up on his bed. It was most definitely not his, and he sincerely doubted that he had purchased it without his knowing about it. Where had it come from?

He puzzled over it for a long moment, admiring its deep wine color, before giving up with a soft sigh. His eyelids were getting heavy and he was sleepier than he could deny any longer. He settled under the combined weights of the blankets, enjoying the warmth already suffusing into them, before falling back against his pillow with a teeth-rattling _thawck._

“Sera,” he growled, wincing and sitting up in equal parts bewilderment and agitation. The city elf had already proven herself to be a troublemaker, with how she had seen it fit to prank his recruits in the bathhouse by leaving a passel of nugs…

Cullen caught his breath when he picked up his pillow, seeing a plain wooden box with ornate little carvings of lions on the corners. How had it gotten there? And how long had it been there, for him not to have noticed it? He frowned, rubbing the back of his head gingerly. Had he not slept the night before? Or...the two nights before that? He knew he’d woken up at his desk a couple of times, but...had it really been nearly four days since he’d lain in his cot? 

_Maker._ Cassandra would throttle him if she knew.

He threw his legs back over the side of the cot to sit up properly, drawing the box into his lap. It was small, as wide and long as the length of his hand, about as tall as the breadth of it, and not very heavy. There was no lock, just a simple clasp to keep it shut. Some sort of floral insignia had been branded into the center of the lid, likely an arbor blessing’s bloom, with flowing Orlesian writing inscribed in the ring around it. He thumbed the clasp up, lifting the lid very slowly and very warily. He did not want a bird or anything of the sort loose in his tent.

When nothing immediately leapt out at him, he peeked through the lashes of one eye. Then promptly sagged with relief and confusion of equal measure.

Neatly lined with white wax paper he recognized from bakeries (usually higher-end ones at that), a packed row of six Orlession frill cakes sat in their rosy, untouched glory. There was another layer of paper beneath them, and when he carefully maneuvered his finger beneath the corner and lifted it, his breath caught at the sight of soft caramels lining the bottom. Mouth watering as sentimentality and old memories filled him, he fished one of the gooey cubes out and placed it on his tongue with care. A soft little hum escaped him as his eyes fell shut, letting the congealed sugar melt in his mouth and permeate his palate. He could almost smell his mother’s kitchen late in the evening when she was preparing supper, could almost hear her scolding him for trying to snatch one of the cooling treats on a tray (and succeeding, because she always let him, a certain tender gleam in her eyes all the while). Mia often complained that he somehow beat her to it every time, insisting that his nose must’ve been made of caramel for how easily sniffed it out.

Truthfully, he’d always known his mother would make it because she would hum her mother’s lullaby those occasional mornings while fixing breakfast.

Cullen tried to ignore the heaviness that closely tailed the warmer, fonder memories of his youth, swallowing the confection and his lingering regrets. He picked up one of the delicately frosted cakes, twisting it to eye the little speckles of gold sprinkled upon its surface. He’d heard about such decorations in the past, from other templars who had been to Val Royeaux, scarcely having believed their tails of edible metals. Only the most elite of confectionaries boasted of such extravagant accouterments, so the box was certainly from Val Royeaux.

He chewed on the inside of his lip and sniffed it. Sweet notes of raspberry filled his nostrils, and his face began to warm as he set it carefully back into its nest.

Had you...bought these for him? Surely the whole box was worth a handful of Orlesian royals, more expensive than anything he’d indulged in for many years. He didn’t know what to think of you going to the trouble, taking time out of your growing duties to get him something so frivolous, recalling his recommendation that he’d anticipated you’d easily forget. Why gift anything to him at all, when he was a veritable stranger? What made him deserve it?

And how in the world had you known about his infatuation with Fereldan-styled caramels?

Shaking his head and trying to ward away the heat in his cheeks, he clasped the box closed and leaned over to place it carefully on the corner of his desk closest to him, hoping that a hungry field mouse wouldn’t find it. As much as he wanted to indulge in a couple more caramels to reminisce on the happier days of his life, he knew he was full enough and didn’t need to add sugar to the mix, lest he be up all night. He resettled into his cot, leaning on his arm to fluff his pillow, and blinked when a small slip of paper fluttered down to the ground. He laid on his stomach and plucked it up, flipping it over to see your familiar, elegant script.

 _‘I’ve come to understand that Fereldans are rather fond of their confections,’_ the unsigned note told him. _‘I hope this helps.’_

Cullen read it two or three times, just to be certain. He folded it carefully, tucked it into the pocket of his mantle hanging on his armor stand, and shifted until he lay on his back. Sleep came more easily than it had in weeks, once the flush in his face had dissipated.

The next morning, he tracked down Josephine and Leliana to show them his plans. Each had a couple of suggestions that worked easily with what he had already drawn, so after adding them and having one of his messengers sketch a couple of copies, he ordered his more experienced men to start construction.

The templars in his ranks were wary - they’d voiced their doubts and dubiousness to Cullen since your raven had touched ground and had caused murmurings in the camp. He was sure they would’ve protested more if there hadn’t been the promise of an attempt at an alliance with the remains of the Order as well. Cullen himself still couldn’t admit that he was entirely comfortable with the entire mage rebellion camping in Haven’s front lawn, but such was why he had decided, ultimately, to stay with the Inquisition. Most of them he knew had been dragged into this mess by fear or lacking anywhere else to go - they hadn’t been in the outside world in years, decades even, and were rather lost because of it.

Rows upon rows of tents were erected, cabins for the healers, elders, children, and sickly were built hastily but efficiently, and he had already set up a separate building for them to store the inevitable emporium’s worth of crates full of artifacts and equipment and tomes. Mages were nothing if not materialistic.

He worried about food, the dwindling population of game in the immediate vicinity, but a startling amount of shipments from the Hinterlands had come in the day the mages were said to arrive. You’d cleared out most of the land enough that farmers had been able to glean the late autumn crops not destroyed by the war, and the first thing they had done was rally together to send a portion to the burgeoning Inquisition. It was a blessing from the Maker himself, Cullen was sure - vegetables and fruits and dried meats and cheeses and breads were piled upon wagon after wagon, along with Master Dennet’s finest herd of mounts in tow. Most were Ferelden forders, coats ranging from pale gray to raven black and any color in between - Cullen was half tempted to purchase one himself, the poor old mare he’d dragged from the singed remnants of Kirkwall’s stables better now only for hauling luggage than sprinting into battle carrying a fully armored soldier. He knew Dennet would care for her in her latter years, and decided to start saving a portion of his coin for an even trade.

The delivery had lifted Haven’s morale exponentially - the villagers were caught singing hymns of praise in the rest of the morning while opening their shops and cooking their first meals. The tiny bakery had filled the town’s walls with the warm scent of yeast and thyme, good to combat the rapidly growing stables outside.

But by sunset, their brilliant moods were dashed with the arrival of First Enchantress Fiona and her apostates.

The mages came over the pass like a herd of druffalo, quiet but massive. She had been the first of the pack, leading the way on foot while she guided her gray-muzzled hart by the reins, allowing a passel of children no older than ten to cling to the massive saddle. Cullen and Josephine had greeted her, had assured her that the promises the Herald had made were set in stone, and that all the mages would be protected and treated as everyone else in the Inquisition as long as they managed themselves and didn’t cause any more conflict. He showed them to their side of the lake, and oversaw them settling in. He had his soldiers (all the non-templars, just to be safe) assist with those who needed it - leading their exhausted mounts to the stables, storing their supplies and belongings, and passing out whatever clothing and blankets and food could be spared. Cullen was proud of his men - they worked hard, and showed the mages the goodness that the Inquisition could offer. And, to his relief, everything went smoothly - no fights broke out, many of the mages likely too tired by the journey to offer any protests. Many took the time to clutch his hands and to thank him profusely, tears in their eyes, relief so palpable in their cracked voices that it had made his throat tighten in sympathy.

He knew that most of the time, mages hadn’t been treated as decently as they should have been. He’d experienced it firsthand after all, had even condoned it once in his life (a time not yet far enough behind him). But this was his chance to atone - and if he could help heal the hurt that he and his brethren had caused, to achieve peace and understanding, then he’d do his damndest.

It was what you wanted, after all. He just so happened to support it.

The next day, as he’d been helping a small group of mages at varying stages of pregnancy settle into the second floor of the children’s cabin, Leliana received a crinkled, dampened report on the events that happened at Therinfal Redoubt, penned by Varric of all people. (He wasn’t surprised that it had been the dwarf forced to find the words to describe such a slaughter.)

His skin had crawled hearing Josephine orate the descriptions of the red lyrium and the templars it had poisoned. She hadn’t been able to read much herself past the first description of finding blood-soaked bodies littering the halls of the fortress. But he was grateful to know that you’d managed to make it out with minimal injuries and losses, save for the representative Josephine had arranged for you.

You’d saved the rest of the Order from the envy demon posing as Lucius, and had won over their trust and favor despite your open support of and unflinching dedication to the apostates.

Cullen was beginning to wonder if there was anything you could not do, once you set your mind to it.

“Oh, thank the Maker you’re all right.”

Cullen’s arms felt stiff, akimbo at his sides, standing in Haven’s gateway and watching you and your companions trudge up the stairs. All of them were dirty and worn, armor smudged and dull and speckled with dried blood. Exhaustion was obvious in the weight pulling their shoulders down. A five day return journey would do that to anyone, especially after such events.

Josephine and Leliana were clustered to either side of him, dressed in loose but warm robes to cover their bedclothes. The moon was high in the sky, well past sunset, and Cullen couldn’t suppress the yawn that tugged itself from the maw of his jaw. Leliana elbowed him sharply. A raven had made its arrival well known at sundown, letting Haven know that the Inquisitor was pressing on to arrive instead of stopping for the night near the base of the Frostbacks - it was the middle of the night, and the guards Cullen had posted to keep an eye out for them were leaning against the outer walls of the gates with drooping eyes.

“I heard that the templar veterans are on their way ahead of the rest,” Josephine said in a light, exuberant tone, attempting to find whatever threads of silver lining she could to make the ordeal seem worth all the horrors they’d faced in both locations. “We will start preparations for their arrival at first light.”

“Good. After what they saw…” Cassandra shook her head, voice hoarse and rough from the long trek. “They need a safe place to stay.”

Leliana focused on you, eyeing your rigid form and pinched expression. Cullen realized you hadn’t said a word since you’d dismounted your chestnut forder near the stables. “I will admit, Herald - I didn’t think it possible to achieve such an ambitious alliance, but I suppose I should not have been surprised. After what you have done for these people...they owe you their lives.”

“That they do,” you said in a curt tone, making Cullen recoil slightly. You finished climbing the steps, regarding the two women to either side of him with a critical eye before gazing deep into his. You turned on your heel and began to stalk towards your cabin. “It has been a long journey, and I am going to rest.”

Cullen turned, reaching to rest his hands on the pommel of his sword but flushing when he realized that it wasn’t there. The messenger had drawn him out of a deep, dreamless sleep (a rarity that he’d mourned while they’d waited), and he hadn’t had the sense to grab it. “Herald.”

You stopped, a halting, jilted movement. You didn’t even turn back to look at him. “What is it?”

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely, “for showing the templars kindness. Those that aided you, I’m sure, have the potential to restore the ideals of the Order. They owe you for that, and so do I.”

You only nodded once, resuming your brisk stalk towards your cabin.

His brow furrowed, and once you were safely out of earshot, he looked to Cassandra. “What happened?” he whispered.

The others leaned in closer as she exhaled heavily. Varric and Solas bade quiet farewells, delegating her to recount the tale - she let them go, watching them depart to their respective dwellings within the village walls. “Where do you want me to start?”

“I am...still a bit remiss on what happened in Redcliffe,” Cullen began slowly.

Cassandra gave a weary, one-shouldered shrug. “Truthfully, I do not know. That man...Alexius, he was...mad. He used magic I have never seen - the Herald and the mage who assisted us-”

“Dorian Pavus?” Leliana queried. “He arrived with the apostates. He has been waiting for the Herald’s return.”

Cullen wondered which one of them he could’ve been - he couldn’t recall any mage lingering around asking for the Herald, but he supposed that it was Leliana’s job to know the goings-on within the village walls as well as without.

Cassandra nodded. “They disappeared. There was no trace of them. Then, moments later, they returned, drenched in blood, looking as though they had both been aged ten years by whatever they saw.” Her eyes darkened. “I pray that what the Herald described will _never_ come to pass.”

Cullen had prayed the very same since hearing the report.

“And then?” Josephine asked softly.

“We traveled eastward rather quickly,” Cassandra continued, folding her arms over her plated chest. “Your scouts and soldiers are a credit to that. The Herald seemed...worried, as if she suspected something would go wrong. Therinfal Redoubt...I never wish to go there again.” The seeker shivered slightly, face paling in the moonlight. “We made it to Therinfal within two days of leaving Redcliffe. It was late when we arrived, and the nobles you penned, Lady Josephine, were ready for us.” Cassandra’s voice softened. “It rained constantly since we left Redcliffe. We were introduced to a templar called Barris, and Lord Abernache represented the nobles as agreed. The Herald performed the templars’ ritual of placing Andraste, the people, and the Order by her own views on importance.”

“I remember that,” the Commander rumbled. “The Order used it to gauge how committed new recruits were.”

The seeker nodded. “Once completed, we met with Knight-Captain Denam. And, after that...things degraded quickly.”

Josephine’s voice sounded no more than a squeak. “Red lyrium?”

“The man we suspect to be behind all of this,” Cassandra explained in a growl, “called ‘the Elder One’, planned to assimilate the templars into his army using it,” the Nevarran confirmed. “And he had already succeeded, with some - but we were able to defend the main hall and protect those that fought back. He was using Alexius in an attempt to seize the apostates in Redcliffe, as well.”

Cullen folded his arms over his chest, bracing himself against the cold breeze doing its best to weave itself into his plain woolen breeches. His mantle was doing very little to block the cold below his shoulders. “And what became of Lord Seeker Lucius?”

Cassandra shook her head. “He was...elsewhere. It was not the Lord Seeker that we met in Val Royeaux. An Envy demon had taken his place.”

Swallowing, Cullen clenched his fists. “Varric said that it tried to…?”

“Possess the Herald? Yes,” Cassandra answered gravely. “It dragged her into the hall, but by the time we managed to get in there, she had already dealt with it.”

“You’re certain?” he pressed. “While they are rare, Envies can take the shape of any face they desire.”

“The Herald was wounded, but no worse for wear,” she told him. “We didn’t have time to deliberate upon the matter - the fighting had already begun.”

“How long did the battle last?” asked Leliana, before Cullen could question the seeker further. He shut his mouth and exhaled quietly - if Cassandra hadn’t sensed anything remiss, then he would have to put his worries to bed.

“Too long,” the seeker said wearily. “We rescued the veterans and protected the templars until they dispelled the barrier preventing us from accessing the rest of the castle. We found...horrifying things, in what was left of the officers’ quarters.” Her brows furrowed. “We believe that this ‘Elder One’ intends to assassinate Empress Celene, based on...well. Everything we saw. It confirms what the Herald saw in the future.”

The monicker was new to him, only having been mentioned briefly in the report, but Cullen couldn’t deny the weight that it carried. “We should send word to Halamshiral immediately,” he said. “If we can put a stop to anything worse happening, then it would give us that much more time and ability to handle the Breach.”

“Speaking of which,” Leliana said, “now that we have the mages settled in Haven, and the veterans inbound, when do we plan to seal the Breach?”

“Soon, I should hope,” Josephine murmured.

Cassandra frowned. “I tried discussing it with the Herald, but since we left Therinfal she has been oddly quiet.”

“Quieter than usual?” Cullen deadpanned, thinking about how uncharacteristically blunt you’d been minutes before. He glanced towards your cabin and found it dark.

She nodded, despite the subtle stinkeye she shot him. “Yes. But...I can sympathize. Not many see as much combat in their lives as we have in the last three weeks. Not to mention the unspeakable horrors she has witnessed within mere days of each other.” She sighed. “I just hope that she comes to terms with it, lest she lose her way.”

“She is strong, Cassandra, else she would not be here to begin with,” Leliana reminded her companion, and the other two advisors indirectly. “I am sure that she will adjust to it in time.”

“To go from never having seen battle in one’s life to fighting monsters for survival…” Cullen shook his head, chest tightening. “It is not an easy thing to adjust to, Leliana - especially not overnight.”

“We know that better than anyone, I suspect,” the Nightingale replied smoothly, and though it could’ve easily applied to Cassandra as well, her eyes were focused on Cullen alone. He swallowed.

“Well. The rest of this can be discussed at a more... _decent_ hour,” Josephine murmured, very visibly fighting off a yawn. She readjusted the mink-lined robe around her front like a fussy mother, stepping back in her dainty gold slippers and almost slipping on the iced steps. Cullen caught her elbow to steady her, and she flashed him a thankful smile. “Shall we glean what we can from what remains of the night?”

“Agreed,” Cassandra sighed. “There is much that cannot be shared or explained through a raven.”

The three women bade each other their good nights, before addressing him and wishing him the same. He made sure they were all close to the chantry before departing, trudging through the nearly silent soldiers’ camp with numb toes and heavy eyelids. His tent, located closest to the lake, was blissfully warm thanks to his smoldering brazier, which he stoked back to life before shaking off his mantle and removing his boots. The cot he’d been provided was not comfortable, but he had to admit that it was not the worst thing he’d ever slept on. The bear fur he’d bartered for in Kirkwall well before the explosion there cushioned it a bit better, and kept him from getting too terribly cold in the night.

He settled onto his back with a sigh, closing his eyes and hauling the threadbare, scratchy, woolen blanket over his stomach. It reminded him of happier times, of trying to get some sleep after a hard day’s work when his sisters seemed insistent upon giggling about the other village boys in the bunks below him and his brother. He remembered doing all sorts of things to try to get them to be quiet - Branson was never any help, with his supernatural ability to fall into a death-like sleep anywhere, at any time. (Cullen was sure that he could have slept while standing if he ever tried hard enough.)

There weren’t a whole lot of things that Cullen wouldn’t be willing to do to go back to that time, when he had still been healthy and hidden from the horrors of the world and _whole._ Not the bitter, broken shell of a man he felt he was now.

He gritted his teeth, rolling over onto his side and facing the wall of his tent. If he relaxed, then maybe he could return to that blessed, dreamless sleep he’d managed by pure accident before.

The next two days were hell.

Preparations for the templars were frantic and frenzied, with dwindling supplies and tiring workers, and Cullen had been reluctant towards Solas’ suggestion of enlisting some of the more experienced mages for help. He’d acquiesced, finally, when one of his men dropped a log on himself merely from lack of rest. He’d directed the apostate to guide them, the elf being one of the very few mages that Cullen could put any true trust in at present, and within hours (despite a couple of the butting of heads by the rebels against those who were willing to help the templars) the work was completed. The templars were given the same accommodations that the mages had been given, and Cullen was grateful that an additional shipment of supplies and food arrived from Val Royeaux that afternoon. Half the templars would’ve had to have shared blankets if it hadn’t.

They arrived not an hour after the last tent pike had been driven into the frozen ground, all of them on foot, whose mounts shivered in the cold. They had meager supplies and belongings, and opted to occupy the outermost ring of tents, closest to the lake and thus closest to the mage camp across it. Ser Barris was among them, acting as temporary leader, and he had saluted Cullen (despite his protests) and had given him a descriptive debriefing of their journey from the Southern Hills. They had marched and stopped for little rest in order to arrive so quickly - the rest of the templars had been ordered to take their time, letting their wounded dictate their pace, and Barris promised that they would arrive within the next couple of days since he’d given them all of their mounts to make traveling easier.

After that, Cullen had (begrudgingly) elected to introduce Barris personally to the Grand Enchantress, giving them both a brief rundown of the dos and don’ts for their respective groups. He advised them to be firm but not fearful, encouraging interactions of sincerity and goodwill in hopes of weeding out any resentment and aggression harbored on either side. The mages weren’t to go into the templars’ camp without express permission, and vice versa - they were to leave each other to their own devices, and were to seek out one of the Inquisition’s officials should they require anything. Cullen hoped that it would be a good start to let both of them have independence and freedom from the other for the first time.

Something told him it wouldn't be as easy as he would like, however, given how Fiona and Barris had been side-eyeing each other throughout the entire conversation.

Exhausted and hungry and numb all over after so much work and frenzy, Cullen had barely been able to sit down for half a meal in the Singing Maiden before a messenger had fetched him for the next war table meeting. He’d shoved a roll into his pocket for good measure, vowing to try to get something down lest Rylen commandeer him again.

Plans were made regarding the Breach - Cassandra had, oddly enough, stood in for the Herald, as ideas for safeguards and treaties and agreements that would need to be made between the mages and templars residing in their front lawn were tossed back and forth over the table. A few were kept, but most didn’t see proper equal treatment between the two - even Josephine had been mildly frustrated by the time they were finished. After that, deliberation upon new operations and missions was discussed, as was normal. They shared reports on their divisions’ findings and progress, and talked about things that would need to be done soon - including the most obvious.

“We cannot discuss our next course of action without the Herald,” Cassandra said firmly, brows pinched in the middle after Josephine had brought it up. “Her participation is integral. She _is_ the one with the Mark.”

“Then where is she?” Leliana questioned, the slightest furrow marring the line of her brow.

“I…” Cassandra hesitated. “She would not answer when I went to fetch her this morning. I thought perhaps she went out to assist the mages, but they haven’t seen her either.”

Cullen frowned, but kept his mouth shut.

“Nevertheless,” Josephine pressed on, “we must prepare. Solas has already elected a group of mages to assist the Herald, and we must wait for the templars’ arrival before we can proceed.”

“Even then, they will need rest and lyrium,” Cassandra reminded them. She glanced at Cullen. “You said you checked the chantry’s stores?”

“There is some, yes,” he acknowledged. The song was nigh irresistible, on the worst of days. “Enough for the veterans they sent ahead, but not for the rest of them.”

“That will suffice for the time being,” Leliana said. “I’m sure Josie and I can acquire as much as is needed.”

The ambassador nodded, already scribbling with her quill.

Cullen sighed, rubbing at his heavy eyes. “Then all we can do is wait for-”

The door to the war room slammed open, bouncing off the archway behind it, as you strode through with a scowl. “You started without me?”

All four of them stared and blinked.

“I tried calling for you,” Cassandra said carefully, “but no one knew where you were.”

“I _was_ in my cabin, writing the reports you all need so badly,” you snapped, placing a clenched fist on the edge of the war table. “You could have tried _knocking_.”

“I - I apologize,” Cassandra said, face tightening minutely. “I did not wish to disturb you in case you were resting.”

“Resting is for the weary,” you snipped, turning your attention to the pieces placed upon the map. He saw dark half-circles under your eyes. “Now. Tell me what you’ve all decided to do without my approval.”

Cullen studied you, as Josephine hurried to fill the silence, listing off the things they’d already discussed. You made sure to voice your opinion on every one, shutting down some and blatantly criticizing others. Your normally quiet, thoughtful demeanor had been thrown to the wayside, as if agitated - there was something about the stiffness of your body, the way even your slightest movements were jerky and awkward, that didn’t sit right. Your voice was too loud, too blunt, and had an unfamiliar strain to it. He understood what trauma could do to any person, what it had done to himself - but would it have affected you so adversely?

He hoped you hadn’t lost your kindness.

“...are the troops coming along, Rutherford?”

He blinked, glancing at the others. All eyes were turned towards him. He cleared his throat. “They’ve improved much in the last few days,” he said. “The promise of closing the Breach has improved morale exponentially - and now that the templars are soon to arrive, they-”

“Yes, yes,” you interrupted, making him bite his tongue. “How soon until they’re ready for battle?”

His eyes rounded. “Battle, Herald?”

The others were equally as shocked.

“Do you expect to be fighting soon?” Leliana questioned.

“We never know when the Elder One will choose to strike,” you said with a grim smile, “so we must be prepared to hit him back within a moment’s notice. We will need the mages and templars ready for march as soon as possible.”

“Are you sure that is wise?” Cullen inquired, brow furrowing deeply. “We don’t know who this ‘Elder One’ is, much less where he might be! And the templars will take a while to return to their former strength, wounded and weary as they will certainly be - not to mention that the mages-”

“Did I ask for excuses?” you snapped, silencing him sharply. “I made my order clear. They will be ready by tomorrow, and we will begin investigating the Elder One at once.”

Cassandra’s mouth dropped open. “But the Breach-”

“Forget the Breach,” you interrupted, turning back to the door and jerking in open once more after Cassandra had shut it gingerly. “We have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Silence fell over the group as the door bounced back open from whence you’d slammed it shut. They saw several chantry sisters and servants staring after you with round, worried eyes, watching you storm towards the opened doors letting in the cooling evening breeze.

Cullen frowned, gripping the pommel of his sword.

He hadn’t been able to find sleep again the night you’d returned, and rest had only continued to elude him. So when he went to bed that evening, ignoring the growing stack of papers piling on his field desk, he had almost thought about posting a guard to keep others out of his tent - just for one night. But yet again, while his eyes and body were heavy, mind sluggish, he could not wrestle sleep into submission. So there he lay, staring up at the shadowed ceiling of his tent, the brazier smoldering dim crimson coals. He should rekindle it, he knew, if he wanted to stay warm the rest of the night.

Exhaling heavily, feeling parched for the one thing he wouldn’t allow himself to have on top of it, he sat up and reached for the water pail at the head of his cot. He downed a couple of cupfuls, the coolness of it soothing his throat just slightly - though it would never carry that metallic chill that tickled the back of his mind constantly.

He scrubbed his hands down his face with a low growl. “Get ahold of yourself, Rutherford.”

“I’d pay good coin to see that,” came a purr from the entry of his tent.

Cullen snapped his head up, feeling suddenly very exposed sitting in nothing but his breeches, snatching up his plain cotton undershirt from the ground and slipping it over his head in one fell swoop - a skill honed after so long of living among sisters of the chantry during his training. His face felt unbearably hot, and he nearly knocked the brazier with his shoulder when he stood abruptly. “My lady Hera-” He stopped, started again with your name, but you waved him off. “My apologies. I didn’t hear you enter.”

“I was quiet on purpose,” you said softly, mischief glittering in your eyes. He stilled. “Wouldn’t want any gossip traveling around Haven, now would we?”

Cullen swallowed. Your tone... “Why would they - what would they have to gossip about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said wryly, “not me sneaking into your tent well into the night or anything. Tell me, why _are_ you awake, hmm? Expecting someone?”

Cullen blinked rapidly, glancing over your form. You wore plain linen breeches and a shirt, unlaced halfway down your sternum, with leather boots barely pulled on properly, and yet despite the cold wind blowing boisterously outside nary a shiver wracked your petite frame. It puzzled him.

“No,” he said slowly, easing back a step. You followed, making his heart stutter. “I was...unable to sleep.”

“Anything I could help with?” you asked with a sweet smile, batting your lashes at him invitingly.

“No,” he answered quickly, tightly.

“Oh.” You sounded disappointed, but thankfully you stopped inching closer to him. After a pause, you sighed. “I came to apologize.”

He stopped, utterly bewildered now. He felt as though he had whiplash for how rapidly your moods had changed throughout his scarce interactions with you all day. “For...?”

“Today. In the war table meeting.” You frowned, eyes guilty. “I didn’t mean to snap, I’d just...I tried all night to write about everything I saw, but...the words never came to me. I accidentally fell asleep on my desk and when I woke up, all of you had started without me, and…” You dropped your head, and - was that a sniffle? “I - I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. I was just...afraid, that…”

Cullen suddenly felt terrible. Here he’d been suspecting the worst, and you were just dealing with the aftermath of Redcliffe and Therinfal as best you’d been able - of course you’d lashed out because of it. 

“It’s alright,” he said softly, stepping closer to awkwardly place his hands on your shoulders. You lifted your gaze to match his, eyes glistening. He wanted to...to do a lot of things. None of which were appropriate for a woman he barely knew, no matter how lovely. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to concentrate on everything but the pout of your lips. “We should have waited for you. But all that we covered we thought was too minute to bring to your attention.”

You nodded, almost dismissively. “But if I’m to be the Herald of Andraste, don’t you think that means I should take every step to look after my people that I can?”

He paused. “I...I suppose, but…” His brows furrowed. “...didn’t you say that you doubted you were involved with Andraste?”

You stared at him a split second, then replied. “I thought so at first, but now that I’ve been through these past couple of days - and _lived_ on top of it…” You gave an awed little chuckle. “...what else but divine intervention could’ve preserved me?”

Cullen chewed the inside of his lip briefly. “I suppose you present a fair point.” He drew back, rekindling his brazier and gesturing towards the water pail. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” you said. Your eyes settled on his armor stand, the sword and shield propped up against it. “Though I’ve been meaning to ask...Cassandra has been training me for combat, but her methods of instruction are rather...rigid.” You peered up at him through your lashes. “Would you teach me, Commander?”

“I, ah…” He swallowed. “I suppose, but...in the middle of the night?”

You shrugged. “You weren’t the only one unable to sleep.”

Cullen conceded your point. “Very well. Have you your weapons?”

You flashed him a smile and slipped out of his tent as silently as you’d entered it. He grabbed his old companions as well as his mantle and followed closely.

You had already started for the lake, staying close to the shore to avoid the line of tents housing the templar veterans. He trailed behind you, quickly gaining on your shorter pace, and soon found himself glancing down at the way the moonlight reflected off the individual strands of your hair like polished silverite.

“Like what you see?” you asked impishly. He realized he could look directly down the front of your shirt from how he loomed over you.

He coughed. “You, ah...just look more at ease than you have recently. I hope you have found a little rest, at least.” He paused, glancing down at the faint jade glimmer emanating from your left hand. It never seemed to glow unless you were close to a rift or the Breach, he had gathered - he wondered if he’d just never seen it in the night. “Does it...does the Mark hurt?”

“Having the templars in our camp has soothed many of my worries,” you replied, dodging his question. You gave him a curious look. “Do you enjoy having your brethren around?”

Cullen frowned lightly. “I, ah...yes. It is a comfort to know that they will assist. I just hope that an outright battle does not break out over the lake.”

“I am sure they’ll work it out amongst themselves eventually,” you chuckled, giving him pause. You glanced around, eyeing the wall of trees that had surrounded the both of you, well away from the rest of the camp and Haven. You turned fully to him with a brilliant smile. “Now. Shall we put our worries to bed for a while?”

The prospect sounded much more tempting than he would have anticipated. “Yes, I do think that will benefit us both.” He raised his shield and aimed his sword at you. “Show me what our good seeker has taught you.”

And show him, you did. You had a startling amount of talent, ease in the lightness of your feet, shuffling over the snow and jabbing at his guard whenever you could. He went easy on you at first, parrying your blows and returning whatever strike you would make, but soon enough you began to become more aggressive. Cullen was able to block your onslaught easily, but...he only saw bits and pieces of a seeker’s training in your form. You almost fought like a templ…

“Ha!” you gloated, as you’d distracted him with a false blow and had wedged your leg behind his knee to knock him off balance. He now lay winded in the snow, gazing up into the stars twinkling far above his head and the moon glowing brightly down upon the earth. He came to notice the tip of your sword resting against his jugular, a cold pinprick that sent a bodily chill through him. “And here I thought you’d be more of a challenge, to be the commander of my Inquisition.”

“ _Your_ Inquisition?” he questioned, the jab at his pride ignored. He took the opportunity of you opening your mouth to reply to sweep your legs out from underneath you, knocking your sword away before pinning you into the snow.

You smiled up at him, eyes glittering and smile dangerous.

“You’re quite the powerful man, Commander Rutherford,” you purred, eyes glinting...almost green in the silver hue cast around him. “Would you let me know you?”

Cullen froze. Memories he thought, had hoped, he’d buried boiled up to the surface of his mind like scalding water.

_‘Shall I know you, templar, before we free you to the Fade?’_

It was instinct that had his arm arced high over his head, the weight of his sword pooling in his shoulder, his lungs full of breath and ears devoid of sound as the sharpened tip shimmered silver in his peripheral - but it was his heart that had him hesitating, his mind recoiling in horror and exploding with fragments of thoughts that could not coagulate. He almost dropped his sword, scrambling back onto his ass, watching as your smile coiled into something more sinister than anything human.

Suddenly, all your odd behaviors clicked into perfect clarity.

“What’s wrong, Commander?” your mouth formed, but your voice was wrong - it was all wrong, the way you were sitting up too straight, how your limbs looked as though they would snap at the joints any second, the mark on your hand glaring through the dark and blinding him. He could swear your eyes were the same color. “Too afraid to fight a lady?”

He choked out your name, fear pouring over him in a cold sweat - but not for himself.

You tilted your head, twisted it, almost, teeth glinting in the combination of Fadelight and moonlight. “She’s a lovely one, isn’t she, Commander? Strong in mind and spirit, even though her body is lacking.” A laugh, low and snide, filled your chest and made his skin crawl beneath his sleep-clothes. “Her position as Inquisitor makes her very tempting. She has half of Ferelden crying their allegiance to her after the span of two weeks, and yet she still runs errands for the quartermaster.” You scoffed, shook your head as you lifted your left palm to admire its glow. It looked sickly reflecting out of your eyes. “All the power of Thedas, right here - ripe for the taking.”

His body was as tense as a rod, and he could barely see for the rage having boiled up within him with every word that had left your lips. “You leave her-” he bellowed, deep from his belly, “-right now, and I will make your death a painless one!”

“The poor knight captain,” you cooed, shifting onto your knees and rising to your feet like the undead, “the sad templar, so weary from his illness. Tell me, how does it feel to have the woman you respect pity you like a sick dog?”

Cullen leapt to stand likewise, head spinning with nausea in reaction to the sudden movement. He gritted his teeth, squinting, the worn leather grip of his sword biting into his callused, bare palm. “Leave her,” he growled, low and tight. He remembered the abominations, the failed harrowings - the young men and women he and his compatriots had been forced to cut down. Fear formed a knot in the pit of his belly, electrifying and cold. “Or else.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him, curious. “Oh? ‘Or else’ - so menacing.” You laughed, and he heard the double inflection now - one half not your own. “Tell me, _Commander_ \- do you really have the strength to do away with me if I choose to stay here?”

“That is for you to decide,” he snarled. He thought he heard a murmur in some of the templars’ tents closer to the edge of the forest. He couldn’t call for help, lest they leap to eliminate the demon - and the Herald along with it. He had to do _something_ to draw it out - but what?

You laughed, again, and it was growing to be less and less your voice. “Well, I needn’t worry - you pose no real threat to me, being as you’re a poor, forgotten excuse of a templar in denial of ever being useful.” You grinned wickedly at him, taking a purposeful step back and raising your Marked hand. “And the weak little soldiers she managed to save? The mages fighting so hard for something they fear?” Your teeth glinted in the sickening jade glow. “They won’t last the night.”

Cullen’s heart leapt into his throat, stepping back in alarm. “What are you-?!”

With a glowing flick of your wrist, the air between you imploded.

The force of it threw Cullen back a good few paces, though he managed to catch himself on his aching knees before righting himself. In horror, he watched as a rift tore itself through the hole that the demon had made, and then all at once more began to pour out.

He turned his head sharply upon hearing a cry of shock echoing over the frozen water, spotting Barris’ rounded eyes as he stood outside his tent. Cullen swallowed, made a run for the slope when a rage demon pooled into shape, causing the snow beneath it to turn to steam.“Wake the camp! Sound the alarm! There’s a rift!”

The watchmen must’ve heard him roaring across the lake into the otherwise still night, because not a full breath after his order the deep chimes rang out through the village. The small army seemed to snap to life immediately, those on guard rushing toward him and those having been asleep jumping out of their tents with their swords drawn.

When he reached him, Barris grabbed Cullen’s shoulders and yanked him to the side - a wisp of ice magic shot past, lodging itself into the ground and forming crystalline shards upon impact. The templar reached into his tent to grab his sword and shield, peering along the shore in shock. “Commander, what happened?”

Cullen shook his head, mouth dry. “The Herald - something - something happened, before she returned. Something has control of her-”

Barris’ breath caught, face paling. Soldiers were running past them now, walling off the wraiths trying to work their way into the templars’ camp. The archers were picking off the ones slipping through from the top of Haven’s wall. “The - The Envy demon! But she - the Herald - ser, she told us that she’d defeated it when it tried to breach her mind!”

“Evidently it was lying to save its own skin,” he growled, “or it happened sometime between then and returning here. Nevertheless-” He peered at the rift glowing through the trees, seeing only demons pouring out. “-we can’t kill her.”

“She’s an abomination, now!” Barris said, though Cullen noted with relief that he sounded hesitant. She had saved his and the other templars’ lives, after all.

“She's the only one who can close that rift - _and_ the Breach,” he returned gravely. He looked to the opening doors of Haven, seeing even more soldiers pouring out - Leliana’s agents, the Nightingale herself, Varric, Cassandra, Solas, Lady Vivienne, Blackwall, and Sera. He pointed at the apostate. “Explain to Solas what’s happened - surely there’s a way to flush it out without harming the Herald. I’ll see if I can single her out in the meantime.”

Barris looked like he wanted to argue, but he only nodded and ran towards the group. Cullen turned, spotting an opening to the left along the stone outcropping bordering the lake - and he tore off, shield raised, heart pounding, blood rushing through him as the measured control of his breaths synced with his footfalls. The roar of battle faded, muffled, and all he could hear was the crunch of snow beneath his feet and the rattle of air in his lungs.

You’d fallen back to the thickest part of the forest, near where you’d marked the logging stand, watching one of the soldiers fending off a cluster of wraiths with glee. Cullen just managed to reach you in time, tucking his shield and locking his shoulder and _lunging._

You were knocked down the slope from his weight, flat on your back, your weapons thrown from your grip and wheezing for breath. Cullen leapt after you, stance widening, guard up, pointing his sword at you with sharp eyes. The Mark was pulsing rapidly, a familiar rhythm, and he realized with a start that it must have matched your heartbeat.

You curled in on yourself, clutching your head, eyes squeezed shut as your expression turned pained. He could hear you mumbling, your voice gradually growing louder and more desperate. “...out get out get out _get out get out_ **_get out_**!”

He called your name, anxiously shifting on his feet. “You must fight it! You can dispel it if you do!”

A shrill cry leapt from your lips, and his heart tightened as he saw tears drip from your eyes. You bared your teeth, lips curled back in a snarl, and all at once you were up, clutching your Mark and stumbling towards him. Blood trickled freely from your nostrils and dribbled from your chin into the snow. You fell to your knees and utterly shocked him by grabbing the blade of his sword and pointing it at your throat. The tip of it pierced the skin, a single droplet of scarlet sliding down to pool in the hollow of your clavicle. Your skin glistened in the moonlight, and you stared up at him with deadly resolve.

“Cullen,” you choked out, more yourself - he could see it in the wet terror in your eyes. “I can’t - I can’t...it won’t-” You let out a full-bodied sob, biting your lip. “I can’t get it _out-_!”

Cullen dropped to his knees, tossing his shield and sword to the side. He grasped your face in his hands, thumbing the tears from the cold apples of your cheeks. “Listen to me. You can expel it - you have to. I’m not going to-” He swallowed roughly, voice tight. “I’m not going to do that. Never. I can’t - not again-”

“It’s your _duty!_ ” you choked out, gripping his wrists tightly. Your unmarked palm bled profusely, hot and sticky against his skin. “I let this - my fault - I _can’t-_ ”

“You _can_ ,” he pressed, grabbing your hand - he could _feel_ the Mark pulsing wildly, energy and magic pouring out of it like water. His blood thrummed in response, remnants of power he thought had mostly gone. “ _You must._ ”

Failed harrowings flashed through his mind. Blood and bone and the static that magic left behind after a spell lingered behind his eyes, dirty, can’t wash it off, why didn’t they succeed, why did _he_ have to strike them down? He couldn’t, not this time, not you, _never_ you - he would never be able to live with himself knowing he hadn’t tried to _save-_

“Let me help.”

Cullen gasped when the Mark let out a volcanic burst of energy, the momentum knocking him on his back and sending him sliding down the slope. He was up, on his hands and knees before he could suck in a breath, seeing nothing but turquoise fire dancing around you. It rose like a wall, obscuring his view - he squinted against its brightness, wondered at the lack of warmth that it cast. But as the flames danced and writhed almost lazily, he saw another shape there with you - whether demon or human, he could not tell.

Heart tight, lungs empty, Cullen searched wildly for his sword. It was still next to you, too far away for him to reach without getting caught in the blaze. A scream rose up among the flames, which arched and grew full as they crackled loudly - but it wasn’t your voice this time, too high and too wispy. A shape tumbled out of the flames, gaunt and gangly and pale with too many limbs, galloping right towards him in panic - Cullen saw your sword, snatched it, swung with all his shaken might.

The Envy screeched in pain, body falling to ash and slime as it was pulled back by the rift and into the Fade.

Cullen panted harshly, squinting through the veilfire as his vision swam around the edges - a hand, glowing, trembling, supported by another rose, reaching, and within heartbeats he witnessed the powerful beam of magic and the loud implosion of the rift.

The flames fell away, and the camp fell silent.

Cullen scrambled towards you, sweat dripping from his brow like blood, clothes wet with snow. A boy was holding you tightly as you sobbed openly, curled in on yourself, looking so heartachingly _tiny._

“Trapped, wedged in between, it found a place to hide outside the inside,” the boy murmured, stopping Cullen in his tracks. He pinned the man where he stood with a striking pale blue eye. “It forced her in, deeper than she could reach out, trapping her among the in between. But she’s out, now, back in. She won’t hurt anyone anymore. I helped.”

“Who are you?” he demanded roughly, voice hoarse.

“I helped - now you will,” the boy echoed, and then...was gone?

 _Wait_...what was gone?

You peered up at him, eyes returned to their normal color, shivering violently, clutching at your Mark and closing it in your hand. Your voice cracked, broken, thick and tight. “C-Cullen? Is it...is it gone?” You bit your lip, squeezed your eyes shut. Your next question came out as a horrified whisper. “Tell me I didn’t hurt anyone. _Please._ ”

His heart broke.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he hushed, falling to his knees and drawing you into his arms. You clung to him with a harsh inhale, gasping, shuddering, beginning to weep in earnest into his sternum. “I have you. You’re all right. Everything will be all right, now.” He smoothed his palm over the crown of your head, running his fingers through the dangling tail you’d tied your locks into. “Everyone is fine.”

“Cullen!”

He turned his head to see Cassandra, Solas, Varric, Barris, and Fiona running through the trees. They all looked bewildered. Half of them had their weapons drawn.

“What happened?” Solas questioned, brow furrowed deeply.

“It was Envy,” Cullen told them gravely. He jerked his chin towards the slimy, ash remains melting the snow. “I’m not sure how, but...I think it hid in her Mark.”

The elf frowned deeply. “That shouldn’t be possible. A demon can only possess a mage’s body - she is not a mage, and...”

“Nevertheless, it happened,” Cullen pressed, not really sure why he knew that. You had stopped crying outwardly, but he could still feel your harsh breaths and tears. “And the threat has passed.” He looked to Cassandra, tilting his head towards your crumpled form against him. “Will you…?”

She nodded, moved to draw you away from him, but as soon as her hand brushed your shoulder you let out a fearful cry and grappled your arms around his chest. “No no no, I can’t - I won’t - Cullen - he can-!”

The seeker backed off immediately, and Cullen frowned as concern flooded through him. “My lady Herald,” Cassandra said, “what’s wrong?”

Your trembling reached a peak, and Cullen recognized the sudden seizing of your body immediately. He guided your head to the side, supported your shoulders, and grimaced as you vomited profusely into the snow, making the others step back a bit. He wiped off your mouth with his sleeve, tucking you against his chest before rising carefully to his feet. You clutched at his shirt, eyes glazed over, continuing to mumble incoherently as your face began to flush with a cold sweat.

“Whatever happened, her body is trying to cleanse itself,” Cullen said. He knew the feeling well. “I will tend to her.”

Fiona looked worried, likely for you being her peoples’ only bastion of defense against the world outside and the templars across the lake. “I have healers that specialize in demon-touch,” she said softly. “They could perhaps cleanse her-”

“There are no ways to purge a demon’s influence,” Barris butted in. “Once an abomination is made, there is nothing that can be done save for-”

“Now is not the time to argue!” the commander snapped, making them both straighten and quieten instantly. “Ensure that everything settles back down, and that those wounded are taken care of. Put out more men on watch just to make sure we aren’t taken off guard again.” He scowled. “And until we determine exactly what happened, not a word of this is to be breathed to anyone else. Understood?”

They nodded and dispersed and Cullen, weary, made to trudge towards Haven’s walls - but Solas lingered.

“There was not a rift there,” the elf said, his long fingers coiled around the worn wood of his staff. He looked pensive, confused - and Cullen didn’t know whether to feel pleased that the apostate was out of his depth for once or worried that there was a chance he couldn’t hypothesize what happened. “The veil is stronger here, because of the wards placed around Haven by the templars. How was it…?”

“She opened it,” Cullen said, a frown creasing his features. “Or - the Envy did, somehow, using the Mark.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Solas responded, shaking his head. “She is not a mage, and thus has no magical abilities - none of this should have happened.”

“But it did,” the commander sighed. His lips thinned. “You don’t think it’ll happen again, do you?”

Solas stepped closer, studying your form with a critical eye that made Cullen’s skin prickle. Your eyes had slipped closed and you were still for the most part, still trembling - the elf grasped your left wrist carefully, inspecting the Mark by flipping your hand to either side. It looked as though it had been split slightly wider. “Hmm.” After a moment of deliberation, Solas closed his eyes and cast a barrier over you, his hands glowing. Your Mark sparked in response, but its light dimmed into complacency. Cullen felt some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “I could train her in dispulsion, potentially,” he muttered, half to himself. “She is more sensitive to the Fade and magic than any non-mage I have ever encountered.”

“Perhaps because she was drawn from it?” Cullen supposed.

“A strong likelihood,” Solas agreed. “You said that the Envy hid within her Mark?”

He nodded. “Yes. It...crawled out of it.”

Solas frowned. “I did not anticipate that possibility.” He grasped your palm and pressed his own to it, casting another spell - one more powerful than the first. “There. That should repair any damage made, with time and rest.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” the commander said, stomach tightening. “Has she been made an abomination? Will more demons try to possess her?” His throat was threatening to close up at the thought. “We cannot lose her - she is our only hope of containing the rifts and sealing the Breach. You know that.”

“I am entirely aware, Cullen,” the apostate told him, catching his eye and pinning him there like a bug to a board. “And no, this shouldn’t happen again. I believe Envy’s unique disposition of copying the appearance of a living gave it an unusual ability to...delve into the Mark and reside there, instead of her mind.” He tilted his head in thought. “Fortunately, Envy demons are rare, and even fewer are able to escape the Fade. But...this brings about an odd line of thought. Does the Mark itself contain a piece of the Fade? Or is it simply a link to it?” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Or is this all a result of her connection to it?”

Cullen readjusted his hold on you, absently marveling at how light you were. “A topic for later discussion, I suspect,” he murmured wearily. “It would be best to keep this between us. I don’t want the Inquisition to reject her in belief that she is an abomination. They could…” He swallowed, unable to finish the thought.

Solas nodded, thankfully. “I understand. I will keep an eye on her, should you wish.”

Cullen hesitated. He knew Solas had proven his goodwill thus far, and his knowledge of demons and the Fade had been invaluable - he should trust him more than what his gut was allowing. He cleared his throat. “I would. You know better than most.”

Solas almost smiled. “Thank you, Commander.” He brushed his fingertips over your forehead, stormy gray eyes contemplative. “See to it that she remains calm, above all - distress will only agitate it and attract more attention when she dreams.”

Cullen nodded, and Solas slipped off into the night without another word.

Healers and soldiers were darting around tending to the wounded when he wandered back through the templar camp towards Haven, templars and mages alike putting out the fires that the rage demons had started and removing the slimy, ashen remains from the ground. The villagers that had been awakened by the surprise attack aided where they could, soothing their children and ushering the elderly back to bed. All gave Cullen a wide berth as he carried you back to your cabin, pushing open the door and shutting it behind him with his hip. The fireplace was cold and dark, not even a candle lit, and he bumped into a few corners with pained grunts before managing to find your bed. He tugged the sheets back with some effort, biting his lip as he carefully lowered you onto the mattress. You were still shaking minutely, but you seemed to have fallen unconscious.

Cullen exhaled heavily, stooping in front of the hearth and coaxing a flame to life with the flint and steel he found on the mantle. It lapped hungrily at the fresh kindling that he fed it, and soon it was crackling as he placed a log into its bright orange maw. He took care to light a candle for your bedside table, glancing around the interior of your designated abode for the first time.

It wasn’t…fancy, by any means. Barely an improvement over his own spartan tent. But there were a few things, obviously gathered from your time in the field - there were books and papers stacked neatly on the small table near the corner, little trinkets and tokens and figurines made of wood and glass and ivory lining the mantle of the fireplace. A polished wooden box propped open displayed an array of the same frilly cakes he’d found left in his tent, only one or two misplaced. Your armor was strewn haphazardly on the floor, like you’d tossed it off as quickly as possible, and as he recalled the night you and your party had returned from Therinfal, as well as your abrupt changes in behavior...he didn’t doubt the possibility.

Lips pursed, he gathered the pieces carefully and placed them onto the stand in the corner, frowning as he observed burns and smoke and bloodstains on the once polished metal. He made a mental note to return to it later, glancing around the rest of your cabin and finding that the rest of its contents were tidy. He let out a relieved sigh.

He moved into the front room, finding a bowl of water there, and carried it back into your inner chambers. He found a washcloth and set to work dabbing the sweat and debris from your face, methodical and gentle. You twitched every time he made contact with your skin, brows furrowing, mumbling quietly under your breath, shivering still. He frowned, seeing your eyes darting back and forth under your darkened eyelids, recognizing the starts of a night terror better than most. Many of the surviving templars in Kirkwall had demonstrated the same signs.

He grasped your shoulder, shaking you lightly with a murmur of your name. You stirred with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering, and you focused on him after a few seconds of orienting yourself.

“Cullen,” you breathed, trying to sit up. He pressed you down firmly, brow furrowing. “Sorry, I - I’m sorry...I didn’t…” Your eyes rounded, darting around to take in your surroundings. You seemed a mite more aware, which he considered a good thing - but you were plainly delirious. “Are - are you - is everyone-”

“Hush,” he said in a low tone, interrupting you carefully, pressing a cup of water to your lips. “You need to relax.”

You grasped his wrist with unexpected strength, pushing it away. “ _Cullen._ Did I hurt anyone?” You pierced him with your eyes, pleading. “Did I hurt _you_?”

He shook his head, but it only seemed to draw your attention to the single streak of blood down the hollow of his throat. It was itchy, now, having dried. You paled immediately, horror filling your eyes.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, covering your mouth, “oh god - I couldn’t - I didn’t-”

He said your name firmly, reaching out to grip your shoulder, hoping it would help to steady you. “Listen to me. It’s gone. What happened was not your fault. You could not control-”

“It _was_ gone,” you murmured, shaking, eyes unfocusing slightly, “it _was,_ but-”

He hesitated. He really should try to calm you down instead of prying, but… “What happened?”

You swallowed, letting out a shaky exhale. “We...found out that Denam and Lucius were trying to turn the templars over to red lyrium,” you whispered. “We went to find Lucius, and then…” Your brows furrowed. “He grabbed me, and pushed me into the main hall, and...it was Envy. It tried to break into my mind, but I…” You frowned. “I resisted, by myself. There was supposed to be someone…”

Your eyes were glazing over, and Cullen’s lips thinned. “Barris said you’d killed it.”

“I got it out of my mind, but then it...it disappeared.” You shook your head slowly, eyelids fluttering. “I thought...thought it fled, or...it went back to the Fade, or…” You sank into the mattress, body growing heavier than your conscious mind could handle. Your eyes closed. “...stupid. I was stupid. I should’ve...should’ve known something...was wrong…”

“You couldn’t have known,” Cullen murmured, finding himself brushing the dampened strands of hair from your forehead. It eased the furrows between your brows and at the corners of her mouth, so he didn’t stop. “Solas even thought it was impossible. It’s not your fault.”

Either you hadn’t heard him or you were too out of it to properly reply. Maker, you looked _exhausted._ “Felt weird,” you mumbled, lips barely articulating the words oozing from your throat. “Hazy. Like...like tunnel vision. Autopilot. Couldn’t...think straight. Had these weird thoughts, over and over and over…” Your eyelashes parted just enough that he could see your pupils, dilated with weariness. “...you...didn’t...didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” he assured, soothing you. He smoothed the hairs of your brow into the right direction with the pad of his thumb. “And I knew something was remiss, just not...not exactly what it was.”

“‘M not like that,” you murmured thickly, moisture welling in your eyes. “I...was scared all of you wouldn’t notice, or...stop me, if I...did something…”

He whispered your name, hushing you. He leaned over you to look directly down into your eyes. The pain in your gaze, no matter how distant, the fear...he didn’t want to think about how familiar it was. “...We wouldn’t have let you do anything rash. You wouldn’t have hurt anyone.” He cupped your cheek gently, tracing the arch of the bone just underneath the lightly bruised skin. Had he done that, or was it a gift from Therinfal he had failed to notice? “We would not have let you be lost.”

You took a shaky breath, stare growing unfocused, and he coaxed you to close your eyes with a murmur. A tear slipped down from the corner of your eye and disappeared into the hairline at your temple before he could catch it. “...Thank you,” you whispered. You swallowed. Your voice grew softer with every word. “Don’t...let me...if it happens again…” Your fingers coiled around his wrist, cold and clammy. “...Promise me…”

He shushed you again, tugging the ribbon from your hair and brushing his fingertips over your scalp like he used to do with Rosalie when she had nightmares and would climb into his bunk. “I won’t let anything like this happen to you ever again,” he murmured firmly. “I swear it.”

Your lips formed a loose attempt at more words, only breath escaping them rather than sound, and only a soft sigh escaped you before your body stilled once more.

Cullen sat there until he was certain that you’d fallen asleep, setting the cup on the bedside table and rising carefully. He slipped off his boots to move around quieter, placing them next to the hearth, and began to investigate the shelves and cabinets around your quarters until he found a tin of armor polish and a nugskin chamois to accompany it. He sat on the floor against the wall next to your armor stand, plucking your gauntlet from it and observing the knicks and debris - with a soft, weary sigh and another glance to make sure you were still under, he began to work.

The methodical movements soothed his frayed nerves, helped to distract him from the thoughts roiling around in his head like spider’s silk in a boiling pot. It was...mind-boggling, what had happened. If you had been anyone else, a mage, surely the templars would have urged him to have you put down for fear of remaining vulnerable to becoming an abomination. But, by definition, you weren’t one, even after what had happened - he had killed the Envy, and if it had truly possessed you, it would have killed you, too. But you were still alive, if traumatized, and Cullen couldn’t shake the lead ball in the pit of his stomach. He gritted his teeth as glimpses of Kinloch flittered back into his mind unbidden, distracted enough that he pinched his fingertip between one of the metal knuckles and drew blood. He muttered a curse, sticking the digit into his mouth, and sighed, shaking his head at himself.

 _What a fool you are, Rutherford,_ he thought grimly, setting the now clean gauntlet aside and starting on the second one. He couldn’t help but scold himself for not pushing more, for not investigating, for not voicing his concerns about you sooner - perhaps if he’d paid more attention, or if he was still taking lyrium, he could have sensed the demon and purged it from you. Maybe he could’ve saved you from the pain of having it rip itself out of you, the lingering remnants that will surely haunt you.

But he knew it was a feeble argument. All the templars at Therinfal hadn’t detected anything remiss. Your Mark was an enigma no templar or mage had ever encountered, and this only proved its alien nature even more. How could he have hoped to change anything?

 _Still._ He paused, looking back up to you. Your expression was more serene, and it soothed his worries a bit. He never would have wished for such intimate violations by a demon on _anyone,_ let alone someone as soft-spoken and gentle as you.

He’d make sure you were okay, at least physically, he promised himself, brow furrowing as he returned his attention to the task at hand (and most definitely not staring in awe at how tiny and delicate the gauntlet laying in his hand was). He was awkward when it came to spoken or written words, always had been, but he would make sure you knew that he was there for you should you need his support. If he had no other experience to draw on, then he could at least tell you what herbs would help you to sleep at night.

You were still soft to the world around you, tender-hearted and compassionate, and he wanted to try to preserve that in you as long as he could. He’d lost that a long, long time ago.

“You doing all right, Curly?”

Cullen’s head snapped up so fast it made the muscles in his neck ache. He let out a groan, raising his hand to dig his fingers into the flesh in an attempt to relieve some of the pain, but it didn’t do much. He cracked open his eyes and looked up to see Varric cocking a brow at him.

The dwarf gave him an amused smile. “I didn’t know you had such a thing for armor.”

Cullen blinked, still struggling to think through the sleep-laden haze in his mind, and realized that your helmet was still in his lap, the polish and chamois forgotten to either side of his legs. “Varric.” He scrubbed at his face, trying to convince his eyes that they weren’t as heavy as they felt. “I...must have fallen asleep.”

He had meant to stay up while he worked on your armor, to make sure you wouldn’t have any night terrors, but he had forgotten that he’d had little to no sleep the past week. His body, in all likelihood, had finally crashed.

“Obviously.” The dwarf folded his arms over his chest, leaning his weight into one hip. “Cassandra told me I ought to relieve you so you don’t miss the morning drills. I can look after her ‘til she wakes up.”

Cullen’s mind finally clicked into place, remembering everything that had happened the previous night. He frowned and stood slowly, hearing his joints crack as he put up your helmet and set the polish and rag on your desk as he moved to your bedside. You had turned over onto your left side at some point during the night, strands of your hair fluttering as you exhaled slowly. He pulled the blankets up and over your shoulder carefully, holding his breath when you stirred but sighing in relief when you settled again. Your skin seemed a much healthier color, and you weren't shivering anymore.

“If you notice her starting to have a terror, wake her,” he instructed the dwarf softly. “It is better to avoid it than to be tortured with it. And take her to the healers when she wakes, she has a cut on her hand that needs to be cleaned and bandaged.”

Varric hummed in affirmation, moving to her desk and settling into the chair behind it. He was eyeing Cullen like he always did when he was trying to parse information together - he’d done it ever since he’d first met the dwarf back in Kirkwall. But Cullen felt groggy and sluggish despite having slept dreamlessly, and he didn’t particularly feel the mood to entertain him.

“I put your weapons back in your tent,” Varric told him as he headed for the door. Cullen paused and noticed that her sword and shield were propped against the wall, as well. “People have been wanting to know what happened.”

“A rift opened up and the Herald closed it,” he said simply. He rubbed at his eyes, praying that the tension behind them wouldn’t develop into another migraine. “Anything else isn’t to be shared.”

The dwarf saluted. “Curly?”

Cullen stopped again with a sigh, not even bothering to turn that time as he opened the door quietly. “Yes?”

“...Nevermind. I’ll let you go.”

The commander glanced at the dwarf, but he’d already pulled out a sheet of paper and was working on cutting a fresh quill. Figuring the conversation was over, Cullen stepped out into the cold dawn air, feeling a little of the tension coiled in his gut loosen as he saw the faint notes of pink and lavender beginning to make the Frostbacks blush. The stars still speckled the darkest parts of the sky, and he took a moment just to breathe.

His eyes settled on the Breach, still glowing and rippling and flashing - so close he could almost feel its energy if he concentrated hard enough.

He sighed, feeling the weight of the coming day settling on his shoulders, and headed for his tent to get dressed.


	4. The End of the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally didn’t save Adan and Minaeve the first time I played In Your Heart Shall Burn because I wasn’t used to reviving people at the time ;-; (but once I fought a couple of dragons I figured it out quickly). I managed to save them all on my current third playthrough, though, of which I was proud.  
> Upon beta reading this, my mother frowned and asked, “Which one is Dorian again?” I told her he was the Tevinter mage who helped the reader to get out of the future. It didn’t click until she asked, “Is he the one that looks like a French pornstar?” And honestly,,? I couldn’t refute that.  
> Happy Valentine's Day, y'all - enjoy some angst. :)

“It was unkind of you to refuse an offer of such power.”

Pale dawnlight spilled into the chilled mountain air contained within Haven’s walls, casting the snow and the stone and the wood in a soft, lavender hue. All the fires had smoldered out during the night, yet to be rekindled by the townspeople seeking their warmth. Clouds hung low in the sky, full and pink - but only over the chantry.

You sidestepped to eye the unfamiliar face standing to your right, leaning against the door jamb. Your eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“You had everything at your fingertips,” the person said conversationally, scrutinizing their nails. They wore light cotton clothes despite the mist leaving their nostrils. Their eyes were pale, skin dark, and you felt as though you should’ve recognized them. “Power, wealth...you could have had everything imaginable, everything you’d ever wanted and could want. Yet you rejected it. Why?”

You swallowed. There was something missing. “You misunderstand. Who are you, exactly?”

“Unimportant, in the long run of things,” they replied smoothly. They straightened, folding their arms over their chest, and ambled closer. “What was it that stopped you, I wonder...was it anger at having no control? Despair for having lost it?”

You gritted your teeth. “It is no matter to you.”

“Oh, but it is, little one.” Their eyes flashed a vibrant chartreuse, but faded back into hazel before you could register it. “You’re different. You feel the Veil without magic in your blood, sense the Fade in your bones. You dream, yet you are no Dreamer - why is that?”

There was something in the back of your head, a warning voice you should’ve known - but its tone and words faded into the odd haze you couldn’t shake. “I...don’t know.”

Their brow lifted. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t remember,” you reasserted, gripping at the hem of your shirt. “I…”

“You don’t know,” they echoed, nodding. “And is it fear of the unknowing? What lies just beyond the dark, invisible but lurking?” They pin your eye, baleful and grinning with teeth too sharp. “Were you afraid?”

“Terrified,” you whispered.

“And what were you afraid of?” they pressed, sweeping yet closer.

“Hurting someone,” you murmured, clutching your arms, peering down into the snow clinging to your toes. Where were your boots? “Doing something I’d regret. Being hated for it.”

“I could help,” they purred. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I won’t let anything else hurt you, and I won’t let you hurt anyone.” They smiled, almost warm. “I can help you protect him.”

_“You will not help.”_

You looked up to see their facade waver, looking to either side with a snarl curling at their lips. Their skin stretched too far, too wet, too cragged…

A weight rested on your shoulder, cool and light but steadying. It pulled you back, and you stumbled onto your ass. The ground wasn’t cold. The air wasn’t, either. No, it was...it was hot, and humid, and…you couldn’t fill your lungs, simmering, smothering, _suffocating-_

A tall, gangly figure stepped in front of you, blades glinting emerald in the sickly green light rushing into the village. Except...there were no houses, just stony outcrops that looked slimy to the touch. Fog threatened to fill your lungs. The chantry was gone. It smelled like...burning wood, and smoke, and fire. Berries?

 _“You don’t have to be afraid,”_ the newcomer said, standing off against the other, whose growl sounded more a snake’s hiss than anything human. He turned, just enough that his wide-brimmed hat and cottony, blond locks revealed a round, watery blue eye. _“Uncertain, unwitting, unaware - but you are in control. You can’t hurt anyone because you won’t.”_

You couldn’t breathe.

“You _dare_ interfere!” they snarled, clothes...dripping away, revealing scales and spines and sickly thin limbs.

 _“You can’t hurt the help,”_ he said quietly, fingers tightening around the hilts of his daggers. _“I won’t let you.”_

The Terror lunged with a screech, and the sound of blades sinking into hollow, wet flesh was still fresh in your ears when you jerked upright with a gasp.

Your lungs ached, your eyes stung, and your heart hammered in your chest like a Qunari war drum. Sweat soaked into your clothes, sticky and cold. Your hands were shaking violently, as was the rest of you, and you scrubbed the sleep out of your eyes just so you could see the warm, firelit walls of the cabin around you. But they felt too close, too trapping, like a cage, you couldn’t breathe, the air was too hot, you felt like you were going to combust - had to get out, had to, _had to!_

“Whoa! Easy, Sibyl! Hot tray!”

You blinked rapidly, chest heaving, as you sank to the side of the doorway. Varric’s brows furrowed in immediate concern, setting the tray down on one of the small crates before reaching out to you. Your legs gave out, sending you careening for the floor, but the cold air brushing your face from the outside world was enough to let your mind catch up.

It was...midday? You could see the village hard at work beyond the path leading to your cabin, people milling about and talking and frowning and carrying things to and fro. Messengers darted about with reports, some with ravens on their shoulders, soldiers marched towards the west side where the trebuchets were being assembled, and you saw a cluster of children playing in the center of it all, kicking a ball around and squealing.

“I didn’t realize you were up,” the dwarf said, watching you curl your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around them. His face was creased with something like guilt. “I’d just stepped out to get lunch.”

“How long have I been out?” you whispered, feeling suddenly, inexplicably, _viscerally_ cold all the way to your bones.

He frowned. “Why don’t we get some real clothes on you and get you fed? You need to get your strength back.”

You couldn’t find the willpower to argue with him, letting him help you stand and support you, his arm wrapped respectfully around your waist as he guided you towards your bed. You sat heavily, leaning against the headboard with a deep exhale. Your vision swam, and it took a moment of squinting to realize he was brandishing a cup of water in your face. You stared at it, taking it gingerly, wondering why you were getting a sense of deja vu from such a simple object.

“How do you feel?”

You sipped the chilled water, grimacing slightly at its flat taste, like it had sat out all night. Still, it helped to steady you. “Do you want the polite answer or the honest answer?”

“I’d rather you be honest than nice,” the dwarf told you dryly. “You know that.”

“Well. In that case.” You downed the rest of it, hoping it would clear your head. “Like shit.”

“I figured.” He wandered back to the foyer, shutting the door and bringing the tray back. He set it on your desk, setting a plate and tankard aside before bringing the whole tray to you and placing it carefully on your lap.

You thanked him quietly, eyeing the array of sweetbreads and the bowl of marmalade to go with it. Steaming tea filled the tankard about half full, delicate floral notes filling your nostrils. You raised a brow. “Chamomile?”

“Solas recommended it,” the dwarf said, making himself quite at home by kicking off his boots and propping his socked feet up on the desktop and munching noisily on a slice of toast. “Said it would help soothe you. It’s supposed to have spindleweed and dawn lotus in it, too, I think. Something about healing properties meant for stress.”

You frowned lightly, tasting it. It had been sweetened with cream and honey, and as you took a proper swallow, the warmth seemed to seep into your bones and stay there. You forced yourself to eat some bread, even though your stomach twisted with every chew. You bit the inside of your cheek, thoughts beginning to well inside your mind as memories of the previous night began to filter behind your eyes like fading dapples of sunlight on a forest floor, fuzzy echoes you could scarcely grasp without them slipping between your fingers. “Varric…”

“Yeah?” he queried around a mouthful of bread.

“I...didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” you whispered, your tongue feeling thick and heavy in your mouth.

He stayed silent longer than you would have liked, but when you gathered the courage to look up at him, he only looked thoughtful. He made a vague gesture towards the outside. “I think a couple of people got a bit scraped up from the scuffle,” he recalled truthfully, “but no one was worse off. Besides, the apostate healers jumped on everybody like flies once everything calmed down - I figure they’re trying to make good on their commitment to the Inquisition.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “The templars were twitchier than a druffalo’s hide in summer the whole time.”

You sighed shakily, remembering strong, sturdy arms, a firm, hard chest, warm, callused hands, and soft, worried eyes. A pinprick of blood, ichor, and dirt spritzed on a tight, darkened, stubbled face. The lack of color in the scar over a full, flushed lip indicating the tension not shown. A low, rumbling voice, unbelievably soothing despite everything. Unshakable calm. “Cullen. Is he...did I…” You swallowed. “Is he okay?”

Varric shrugged. “Seemed all right when I saw him this morning.” He glanced towards your armor stand, thoughtful, and you followed his gaze - then gasped softly.

“He didn’t,” you breathed.

“I’m pretty sure he did,” replied the dwarf. “Fell asleep doing it, too.”

Never had your armor looked so beautiful - Harrit hadn’t polished it when he’d performed a final fitting test, simply eyeing every buckle and lace and strap before nodding and whacking you on the back and sending you on your way. After that, it had accumulated dust and mud and sweat and blood - you’d never really had the time to maintain its once shiny appearance, too caught up in the benchmarks you knew you needed to blaze, but now...the metal gleamed rose gold in the crackling firelight, the leather under pieces clean and smooth, even the buckles shiny and new. The Inquisition crest emblazoned in the center of your cuirass winked at you as you bit the inside of your lip.

So it hadn’t been a dream, after all. Cullen had carried you all the way back to your cabin, and...had looked after you - had stayed with you all night, even - but...you swallowed. You wanted to think it was because he was concerned for you, wanted to make sure you were all right, but you had to think realistically. He had probably stayed to ensure that the demon had truly been purged from you and to make sure you wouldn’t be possessed again, to see to it that you wouldn’t put anyone else in danger. He might have left the Order, but many of the duties and responsibilities of a templar trickled down into his role as the commander of the Inquisition. He had the lives of his men to consider, all the civilians, not to mention everyone else now residing in Haven. You had threatened it, threatened them, threatened the tentative peace that had befallen the tense little village, just by being blindsided.

You couldn’t afford to let it happen again.

“...What’s on your mind, Sibyl? You’ve got that look.”

You blinked out of your thoughts, looking at the dwarf curiously. “What look?”

“The look you get when you’re overthinking something,” he answered wryly, and _damn_ if that simple truth didn’t make you feel so incredibly vulnerable.

You swallowed, tried to distract yourself with more food. “I’m not. Just...trying to remember last night. And the day before that.” You frowned, chewing. “And...several days before that.”

Varric tilted his head. “Are you really doing all right?” he asked gently. “It’s not exactly every day that someone goes through something like that - let alone a non-mage.”

You shrugged, doing your best to ignore the pinch of your stomach at the brief, flickering memory of crowding Cullen’s personal space, the discomforted flush to his cheeks and ears. Envy had found it cute. You’d been too busy trying to push back. “I’ll be fine,” you finally replied, dismissively. You didn’t want to think about it anymore.

The writer looked like he wanted to argue with you, but dropped it with a shake of his head, mumbling something under his breath.

You finally set the tray aside, as full as you could stand without tempting the lingering nausea, and eased yourself to your feet. Varric was sitting upright in an instant, a frown creasing his forehead. “You don’t need to-”

“The mages and the templars are here,” you interrupted, gritting your teeth and steadying yourself on the edge of the mattress. “The Breach is still there. I need to seal it as best as I can, while I can. We don’t know if-” You took a step, but your knee promptly gave out beneath you. You managed to catch yourself, spots dancing in your vision, and Varric was quick by your side.

“...just as bad as Hawke,” you heard him grumbling, but he didn’t try to force you back into bed. Instead, he helped you stand up, making sure you were putting your weight into the mattress before stepping over to the chest at the foot of the bed and rifling into its contents. He laid out a long, thick crimson tunic and a deep gray cloak with a wispy golden scarf - articles that would easily slip over your head and allow you a good range of movement while still keeping you warm and covering up the wounds you’d attained the last week. (It wouldn’t require him to help you take off your plainclothes, either, you noticed.) He stopped, eyed you warily, bracing his hands on his hips. “Listen. I know I can’t stop you from doing what you want. But whether I’m going to willingly recommend you be up and about - and whether I want to withstand the others lecturing me for doing so - will depend on whether I’m going to be your crutch for the foreseeable future. So. If you can make it to the door and back, I won’t have to babysit you.” He raised a finger when you opened your mouth. “But if you can’t, you’re staying put. Got it?”

You gave him a sour look, but you knew that you really had no room to argue with him since your thighs were trembling under the strain of just holding you upright, with only half your weight on them. You nodded, gritting your teeth, and eased away from the bed. You wobbled dangerously, but you managed to shuffle your way to the door. You braced yourself against it, taking a breath, swiping at the film of sweat on your forehead and taking a breath. You were less shaky on the way back, however, and it made you feel a bit less like a fawn stuck in a snowdrift - you hoped it was just lingering vertigo because of whatever happened the previous night and not a long-term issue.

Varric was frowning, but seemed to acquiesce as he handed you the layered tunic. “If Cassandra comes after me, I’m sending her your way.”

“That’s fine,” you sighed softly, wiggling your way into the heavy woolen fabric. It was a little snug, but gave you enough room to breathe. The cloak was high around your neck and reminded you of the enchanters’ coats, with all the clasps lining the front. You wound the scarf around your neck, feeling some relief from the chill still clinging to your bones since the tea’s taste had faded. “I...thank you. For looking out for me.”

“Believe me, I think I should add ‘professional mother-hen’ to my title,” he quipped with a smirk, but you didn’t miss the hint of concern in his eyes. “Take it easy, alright?”

You nodded, giving him the best smile you could muster. “Yes, mother.”

Varric scoffed, shaking his head, gathering up the trays and waving you off when you tried to help. “You focus on getting your shoes on.” He nodded towards your unmarked hand. “You need to get that cut checked out before you do anything else.”

You looked down to the palm in question, brows inching up your forehead as you saw the relatively deep cut sliced down the middle. No wonder it had been throbbing - you hadn’t even noticed it. You wondered what’d happened to put it there.

You sat to pull on your boots, mindful of the tender scab, and the dwarf paused in the doorway on his way out. He seemed to debate inwardly for a moment, lips pursed, before he glanced back at you. “Cullen was worried,” he said. “It doesn’t take a people person like me to be able to tell that. You might check in with him. I haven’t seen him that dire since...well. A while back. In Kirkwall.”

You could guess what he was referring to. “Thanks, Varric.”

He dipped his head and was gone.

Once you clambered back to your now clothed feet, you stumbled your way to the door, pausing and eyeing the walking staff propped in the corner - but it resembled a mage’s staff too closely for your mindfulness of the templars. So you settled on clinging close to the buildings as you passed them, always staying within arm’s reach just in case. The crisp air and the warm sun helped to clear your head, bracing you and making you feel just how well insulated you were. It didn’t take long for your nose to get numb, however, cheeks chilling and lips chapping, so you meandered slowly towards the apothecary, hoping Adan would give you something for your general...discombobulation.

You made a mental note never to get too close to demons if you could possibly help it.

Eventually, you made it to the small cluster of cabins near the west side of the village. Your nose was running by then, and you’d buried your hands into the deep pockets of the cloak to try to keep your fingers warm. Solas was nowhere in sight, likely reclused away reading or meditating, and part of you was thankful for it. You figured he’d have questions for you later, and you didn’t particularly want to discuss the details. Not yet. Probably not ever.

When you reached out to knock on the door to the apothecary, the door disappeared from under your knuckles. A wall of metal and fur filled your vision, moving quickly, bumping into your front and sending you careening dangerously. You staggered back, already unsteady, and latched onto the large hands that grabbed your shoulders to keep you from falling. The stretched leather gloves were well-worn and smooth, warmed by the flesh beneath them.

“Maker, I’m sorry, I didn’t-” Cullen’s eyes rounded, his fingers tightening around you as he breathed your name in surprise. “...I didn’t...think you’d be up so soon.”

You found yourself struggling for words. His expression was...difficult to decipher. You settled on calling it shocked. You offered him a lame smile, trying to shake the growing sense of tension as little glimpses into the night before flickered behind your eyes like a guttering candle flame. “I thought Varric was going to sit on me, but…” You breathed in deeply, catching whiffs of the herbal scents clinging to him - elfroot, a soft minty fragrance you didn’t recognize, and perhaps a bit of ginger. “We’ve all got work to do, so I couldn’t stay in bed lounging all day.”

Cullen frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” you responded immediately. You gestured to the building behind him with your wounded hand. “I just...figured I needed to have this looked at, before it gets worse.”

A furrow formed between the commander’s brows, and he reached out to grasp your wrist with careful fingers. He turned your palm up to scrutinize the angry swelling and crusted blood. He swept his thumb carefully along the side, creases tugging at the corners of his mouth as you winced. “Do you recall how you got it?” he asked finally.

You shrugged. “It’s all...a bit of a blur. I...remember bits and pieces, but...I can’t really seem to put them together.” You dropped your eyes to avoid his gaze, so heavy with the weight of his dedicated attention on you - and spotted a scab, tender and red, at the base of his throat just above the neckpiece of his cuirass, barely a pinprick but obvious all the same. Your heart squeezed, and your face felt colder. “...Oh.”

Cullen seemed to know what you were thinking. “It’s inconsequential. Just a knick.”

You pressed your lips together, doing your best to ignore the tightening of your throat, ratcheting down around your throbbing, quickening pulse. “I...okay.” You pulled your hand from his gingerly, brows drawing together. “How are the templars?”

The commander frowned, but deigned not to question the change of subject. “They are stronger today, after resting from their march. The mages are also ready for whatever the next step may be.” He hesitated. “What are your thoughts on the Breach?”

You glanced up towards it, stomach sinking as you took in the gaping green wound flickering in the sky. “It’s our top priority. We need to get it shut before anything else to keep it from getting any worse - then we can worry about this ‘Elder One’.”

As you looked back to him, Cullen’s shoulders loosened from the minute tension you hadn’t even noticed. He nodded, once. “We elected to wait for you to wake to discuss any plans, but…” His eyes glanced over your form. “..are you certain you feel well enough to put anything into motion? You don’t need more rest? Sealing the Breach incapacitated you the first time, and…”

You shook your head, reaching out to briefly rest your palm on the cold metal of his cuirass. “Cullen. I’ll be fine.” You locked eyes with him, seeing your reflection in the tarnished gold depths. “I promise.”

His lips thinned, and he looked like he wanted to argue further, but he finally let out a heavy sigh and dropped his head and shook it. “Alright,” he mumbled. “Have you eaten?”

“Varric made me,” you said wryly.

“Good.” He glanced towards the door of the apothecary, having closed behind him. “A potion will be easier on your stomach, then.” You saw him bite the inside of his lip, debating. “I don’t mean to pry,” he began in a murmur, not looking at you directly, “but if you have any difficulty sleeping...chewing valerian root before bed will help.”

“I...thank you.” You offered him a small smile. “...I couldn’t thank you enough, for what you did. Last night. For me.” Your face warmed. “I mean, with looking after me, and…”

He returned the smile, eyes almost amused as he readjusted his mantle on his shoulders. “You needn’t thank me. I hope I helped.”

“You did.” _Cool, damp rag, gentle touch, hushed rumble._ “...So. Um. Will you gather the others for a meeting?”

“I’ve duties that need attending for the time being.” He straightened to his full height, making you crane your head back to watch him crack his neck with a low hum. “But I will send word for them to be ready before third meal.”

“Thank you.” You shuffled on your feet, turning to the apothecary, and Cullen surprised you by pushing the door open for you. “Oh. I, uh…” You stepped inside quickly, eyes lingering on the angles of his face in the sunlight. “...See you later, then, I guess.”

He tilted his head, seemingly a bit puzzled by your unfamiliar phraseology, but his lips quirked up and made the scar on his lip turn white. “Until then, my lady.”

The door closed, and you studied the roughened grain of its planks for longer than you should admit.

“Are you going to stare at the tonic stains all day or are you going to tell me why you were letting in the cold air?” came the gripe from the potion-brewer somewhere behind you. You jumped, turned, saw Adan squinting at you speculatively from his desk, and rubbed at your heated cheeks in embarrassment. “Is that a scratch on your neck? You look like you’ve jumped in a cage with a bear!”

You certainly felt like it, after the week you’d had. You swallowed and moved towards him as he gestured you over like a scolding parent.

When you reemerged from the apothecary fiddling with the gauze wrapped around your palm, grimacing as the poultice continued to burn like ice, it seemed that the lunchtime bustle had died down in the heart of the village. The lingering bitterness of Adan’s potion made you want to wash your mouth out, the strength of the elfroot settling below your tongue. You smacked your lips, tucking your hands into the cloak’s deep pockets, rolling your shoulders up to hide your face in the scarf around your neck as you headed towards the gates.

You couldn’t help but look up at the Breach, taking in the breadth of it swirling like a glowing, sickly storm. Rock and earth and fire still seeped out of the tear, though you’d sealed it temporarily, bleeding and raw and hurting. Your stomach tightened, thoughts and doubts and worries beginning to cloud your mind and to tunnel your vision.

“Reeling, lost, you want to help _everyone,_ the hurts of others hurting more than the ones inside. You feel as though you are alone in your thoughts, your knowledge, your _knowing_ \- you carry the weight of your own vows like a yoke, digging into your shoulders, heavy and hard and breathless. You think you’re the only one who can bear it.”

You froze, mind catching on the words so soft off to your right as you crested the stairs. You looked down, heart racing, eyes wide as the familiar, timid voice rose up from the gangly form mostly hidden by rags and a wide-brimmed hat, settled to the side in the corner of the stone and out of sight to anyone not paying attention. You sucked in a breath.

The same pale blue eye peered up at you from between cottony locks and dirt smudges. “You remember, but not everything. You fear what you don’t know, but you are more terrified of what you do. It looms on the horizon, like a storm. With teeth. You want to protect them, keep them all safe.” He tilted his head, curiosity ringing in his voice. “...You know me.”

The last statement sounded more like a question, and you couldn’t help the sad little laugh that tumbled from your lips. An odd catharsis rolled over you, relief and hesitation hand in hand. “Cole.”

He blinked. “Yes.” 

“May I sit?” you asked quietly.

“The earth holds your weight when you no longer can,” he responded absently.

You took that as an affirmative, stepping down off the stairs and easing onto the chilled ground in his chosen alcove, folding your arms over your chest in an attempt to keep warm. You rested your chin on your arm, trying to find something to say - you wanted to welcome him, thank him for being there, but…

“The others don’t understand,” he murmured, using a small stick to scrape unintelligible scrawls into the frozen dirt. “They don’t see - all they see is you seeing...but it is enough.”

Your shoulders loosened. “Cole. I…” You swallowed. “Thank you. For being here. And...for helping me, last night.”

He hummed. “The mark is a torch even in the day, a star set in between the layers, stitched, stitching, making you bright and unreachable. But they will try, when you’re most vulnerable.” He paused, added quieter, “You need your rest.”

“Yes, that…” You cleared your throat. “...but I meant earlier. By the lake.”

He looked at you again, seemingly a little shocked.

You chuckled again. “I may not remember it all, but I know you made me forget, to help. Thank you.”

“Oh.” He studied you for a long moment, deliberating. “Envy wanted to hurt you, and everyone else. It tried to drown you. I wasn’t there.” He looked back down to the dirt. “I should have stayed with the templars. I could have helped.”

Curiosity replaced the fear you’d had at Therinfal with his absence. “Why did you leave? Did the red lyrium bother you?”

“So much hate,” he murmured. “Many of the templars fear the mages, but you chose to go to them first - some of them don’t trust you for that. The mages needed help, for their journey.” His hand stilled, gripping the stick with white knuckles. “She lost her doll in the tower, when the gates were opened. She found one in a bush at the Crossroads, charred, but dressed in the scarlets and golds of home. She barely remembers the castle always looming in the periphery, now.”

You had always wondered what he had done when the Inquisitor would choose the mages over the templars. You supposed that him going to where he was needed more made sense. “I wanted to help both. I didn’t want to leave the templars to die, if they would be willing to stop fighting.”

“You took them in. You let them stay in strength even after what they did. Their own people.” He frowned lightly, catching your eye. “It is dangerous when too many men in the same armor think they’re right.” He paused. “You should prepare. It’s already getting louder.”

You tensed. “How soon?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, “but there are echoes, rushing back across us, ripples in a pond from a stone, but backward. But first, you seal it.” He reached out, touching your marked hand with the barest brush of his fingertips. It sparked and crackled as he did, making the nerves light on fire for the first time since you’d put a patch on the Breach. You grimaced, clenching it into a fist to stave off the needling. Cole’s voice grew softer. “I hope it hurts less. I’ll help if I can, but I don’t always say it right.”

“It’s okay. I’ll try to understand as best as I can. I’m sorry if I can’t.” You sighed heavily, flexing your fingers. “Would you tell me more about the templars? I don’t really know now what to expect from them, especially with the mages in camp.”

“They’re heavy with forgotten songs, like Varric. Some of them are too loud. It’s hard to stay near them. Cullen is...softer, but demons asked questions that hurt him. Evangeline was kinder. I want to explain, but…” His mouth scrunched. “Rhy’s mother spoke to spirits but not to him. Then she died for a templar he loved. Words just bounce off the edges.” He sighed, frustrated, before studying you for a moment. “He wasn’t afraid of you. He feared _for_ you.”

You stilled, brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“He was afraid of the ghosts that haunt him, the blade dripping from those that failed. He didn’t want you to be the last.”

You hummed quietly, lips thinning. “...Is he okay?”

“You smiled at him,” the boy answered simply. He looked at your bandaged hand. “He knows it’s going to scar. He wishes it wouldn’t.”

You frowned, folding your hands together under the sleeves of your cloak to keep them warm. “What do you think about the templars in general?”

“Some like hurting mages. It makes them happy, or less afraid, or…” His eyes grew distant. “Dreams again, woke up shaking. Stalking the grounds for one who looks like her. Always some rule being broken...you remind him of her, but it’s not the same.” He drops his head, reaching down to pick at a pebble he’d dislodged from the frozen dirt. “But not all templars listen when whispers crawl around inside them. They try to protect people - like Cullen. The good ones remember that mages are people.”

“And how do they feel to you?” you asked.

“They feel older than they look. They’ve been changed, and their bodies are incomplete now. The lyrium helps, but their bodies always want to connect to...something older. Bigger than they are. That’s why they block magic. They reach for that other thing, and magic has no room to come in. Like when I listen to Varric.”

You smiled at the thought. Already a connection had been made, even if the dwarf hadn’t realized it yet. He probably wasn’t even aware of his unseen audience. “Can you tell me about the red templars? You probably perceived a bit more than I did while you were there.”

Cole frowned. “The red lyrium is different, darker. Daggers under the skin. It eats you inside, until you’re nothing. They hear a different song - the song behind the door the old whispers want opened. They are dead and dark and done.”

You sighed softly, stomach sinking. You closed your eyes and listened to the noise around you.

“You want everyone to run,” he said quietly.

“Yes.” You buried your face in your arms. “I want to keep them safe.”

“They will listen,” he assured you. “I’ll help.”

“Thank you, Cole,” you returned, but when you looked up, the boy was already gone. Bereft of the barrier he made against the wind, you shivered - but you suspected it was time to get up, anyway. You wanted to see how the mages and templars had settled in, if there was anything you could do for them - not to mention the fact that you wanted to see how Cullen had arranged their camps for yourself.

The thought only struck you when you reached the main gates of the village and gazed out across the valley to take in the curls of smoke rising up from numerous bonfires scattered about the densely populated camps: the hard work he and the rest of Haven’s inhabitants had put into it would not last for very much longer.

It made lead drop into your gut, clenching around it and threatening you nauseated. You knew something terrible was coming, but...whenever you tried to think harder on it, the memories would escape you, like looking at shadows in your peripheral but being unable to make them out once you focused on them. Your nerves were beginning to fray, slowly but steadily, and it took a musical, measured cadence to draw you from the spiraling, dark draw of your thoughts.

“...Oh, dearest Herald! Truly, I’ve been attempting to hunt you, but you are a difficult quarry to track.” Dorian, dressed in thick, warm-looking robes of deep chocolate velvet and creamy cashmere, strolled to a stop at the base of the stairwell and gazed up at you with twinkling eyes and quirked brows. “If you have a moment, I should like to discuss a few things with you, as they are terribly important. To deprive me the pleasure of viewing your charm for so many days is such a disappointment.”

You blinked, feeling an inkling of relief for the distraction worm its way into your belly. You eased down the stairs, wrapping your arms about your chest to try to dissuade the chill that had settled at the base of your spine. “Master Pavus. How are the mages fairing?”

“You would think they were being filed into the prisons beneath Minrathous,” he grumbled, glancing sidelong towards the establishment. “All they do is complain about the cold and the noise. I’m afraid they’re doing their best to pester your seeker to the death - though they are certainly braver than I.” He tilted his head, twiddling the curled end of his mustache. You wondered if he knew there was a fine dusting of snowfall on it. “I do know one thing, however - they’ve been rather jumpy since those templars arrived. Pray tell, are the south’s templars that much different than those in the Imperium?”

“You tell me,” you said, beginning to walk towards the left of the lake. Dorian ambled along beside you. “I don’t really know what the Imperium is like.”

“Oh, but I have heard such things about your endless wealth of knowledge!” he remarked. “That dwarven friend of yours seemed quite content to scare me off by threatening me with you having ‘seen into my dark Tevine soul’!”

You let out a soft groan. “Did he really say that?”

Dorian chuckled. “Not quite. But he seemed concerned with the fact I was trying to see you so early in the morning.”

You raised a brow at him. “Why _were_ you trying to see me?”

“I have a few concerns about this supposed…‘Elder One’, that we heard about.” His expression sobered, and his pace slowed near the ring of sparring trainees. You stopped with him, concerned. The sounds of clashing metal and wood drowned any chance of being overheard. “I heard that there were rumors of the same name at Therinfal Redoubt? Your seeker elected to answer few of my questions before the dwarf chased me off.”

“You know as much as I,” you replied, lips thinning. You were being truthful, in a way - you couldn’t force yourself to recall what your brain neglected to remember - yet you knew that your growing dread and that name were interlinked by the pinch of your gut every time your thoughts revisited it. “It doesn’t bode well.”

“That much is certain,” Dorian agreed. “The Venatori have gone quiet - the Nightingale informed me that her contacts have stopped seeing them skipping about in the Hinterlands. She suspected a tactical retreat.” A displeased sound left his mouth. “She also suspected my involvement, accused me of being a spy placed in your midst to take account of the Inquisition’s status.”

You knew Leliana could be dangerous when suspicious. Your brows furrowed. “She didn’t threaten you, did she?”

“Threaten me? No!” He laughed, shaking his head in mirth. “Did she tell me that I would never wake from her poison in my wine should I prove your trust misplaced? Yes.”

Your mouth dropped open and your face grew even colder. “Dorian!”

“Fah! That would be a housewarming compliment in Tevinter. It isn’t as though I could have run to cling to your skirts, anyway - the dwarf said you were unconscious after sealing the rift last night.” Any amusement he had dissipated as his eyes focused on the base of your throat, then dropped to your bandaged hand. His voice fell quiet. “You are all right, aren’t you? I was too busy assisting the cleanup to check on you, else I would have offered healing.”

“I’m fine,” was your automatic reply. When he gave you a speculative, disbelieving look, your shoulders fell with the wake of your heavy sigh. “It was...a remnant of Therinfal, and a long story. I’ve got too much work to do to rehash it now. Shall we?”

When you moved to slip past him, he caught your wrist in a firm, anchoring grip. “You feel different,” the mage pointed out, stormy gray eyes rolling like thunderheads. “Mana is adhering to you like frost, I can sense it. Do you have any lasting effects? Do the rifts cause this? You’re not a mage, so the Veil shouldn’t be clinging to you in such a way.”

You bit the inside of your lip. You did feel a bit...colder, inexplicably. But it could only be the weather, one day further into autumn and closer to winter. “Dorian, I appreciate the concern, but I don’t have time for this. I’ll tell you later.”

He frowned. “I will hold you to your word.”

Rolling your eyes, you tugged your wrist free from his gloved fingers and started towards the mage camp once more in a slow pace inviting him to follow. “If it would make you feel better to promise, then I promise to talk once all this settles down.”

“I have my doubts as to that ever happening,” he muttered, just loud enough that you could hear.

“Raise your shield, man - it’s to protect you, not act as deadweight!”

You turned your head to peer through the throngs of men, now straightening and giving their attention to the two most heavily armored in the center of the circle. Dorian’s warmth brushed yours as Cullen tossed his sword to his companion, pulling his shield from his shoulders and dropping into a back stance to demonstrate. His voice carried over the brisk afternoon wind like the roar of a waterfall.

“It serves a counterpoint to the weight of your sword, yes, but you shouldn’t leave it low,” he boomed, answering a question unheard. He gestured to the other man, a templar in half plate, whom you quickly recognized as Rylen by the facial tattoos - he gave Cullen a wicked grin, lunging forward and thrusting the sword out so fast that you missed it by blinking away the water in your eyes from the cold. The commander lurched to the side, pushing the shield out and into Rylen’s inner arm to knock the blow away completely. He was then able to reach out and grab the back of the templar’s skull, shoving him off balance and sending him stumbling to the side. He turned to address the men once more, metal-bound chest heaving as mist billowed from his lips. An errant curl had broken free from his crown and laid caressing his temple in a golden, sunlit kiss. “Think of it as a compliment to the sword, not an adversary - you must use both in tandem in order to fully guard against an opponent! And tilt it according to your foes; if they are mages, then deflect their spells downward, and if they are archers, protect your trunk and head!”

Dorian let out a low whistle as affirmations and murmurs filled the air, the soldiers returning to their sparring with methodical, practiced movements. “...I think your men are in most capable hands, your Heraldry.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your back to the scene, now walking at full stride to put distance between the grinning altus and your warming cheeks.

Finding Fiona was a challenge in and of itself. It took nearly fifteen minutes of going through the relatively crowded camp asking semi-suspicious and wary enchanters about her location. Half of them gave you dodgy answers and quickly left, and the other half claimed not to know at all. You finally discovered her in the maternity ward helping to babysit the young children and slightly older apprentices while their mothers and caretakers took a break for lunch. The sight of her telling them stories about the Fifth Blight and its heroes was both heartwarming and not lost on you in the slightest. You and Dorian had waited patiently until the women were able to return, upon which Fiona led you to her tent to talk away from wayward ears. She requested that Dorian wait outside, which he did so graciously, and she let you ask some questions about their current state of living after casting a silence ward upon the canvas walls.

Cullen had done well, as it turned out. There was nothing in which they had dire need, save perhaps more blankets to go around without several people having to share per tent. But food was plentiful thanks to the connection you made in Val Royeaux, they had shelter from the wind when it got too cold, and what seemed the most important was their newfound privacy - she thanked you profusely for allowing them sanction to monitor who went within and without of their camp, and for keeping the templars well away from those more anxious or aggressively inclined within the ranks. While there were growing pains, complaints from many about relatively menial things (which she apologized for, as several enchanters had gone to your seeker to voice them), she could see that the confidence, faith, and security were growing fast in her people while the fear, tension, and reluctance towards the Inquisition had diminished astoundingly by the day. She reported that many had already proclaimed loyalty to the cause and were eager to assist wherever they could, be it in forces or support efforts.

It was a good discussion that put many of your worries to rest. Fiona had a good head on her shoulders, capable of guiding so many with little stress, and she seemed most of all to be learning to trust you with all of their fates. You had promised her, then, that you would help them to get back on their feet and eventually become independent to the best of your strength and ability. They deserved peace and safety, after everything they’d seen and experienced.

After that, you had taken your Tevine companion to the opposite camp, which he’d absorbed with rapt fascination. The templars were a bit wary of his presence, just as the mages had been, but they weren’t as outwardly antagonistic. The wounded templars had finally arrived from Therinfal while you were unconscious and were well on their way to recovery, and they took time to thank you for sparing them the fate that others had fallen to. They vowed to return to duty as soon as the healers allowed them.

You found Barris circle sparring with three recruits who you’d personally fought beside in the courtyards. With no helmet and nothing but leather and chainmail, he had barely broken a sweat despite fending off their continual attacks for quite some time. They, in full armor, could be heard huffing and wheezing, trying to keep up with their temporary commanding officer. With as much as you’d sparred with Cassandra already, and having observed a fully-trained templar warrior’s full strength (at the risk of your own life, more times than you’d care to count thanks to the zealots hiding by the river in the Hinterlands), you could tell Barris was going extremely easy on them for the sake of their lack of experience.

The man was gracious, and offered you and Dorian food and drink after he’d cleaned up and had led you to the central campfire, which you’d accepted. The majority of the knights were with the commander’s recruits, helping in the drills, so the camp was half-empty. The rest were out checking the stability of the Veil surrounding Haven at Solas and Cassandra’s behest. Despite his nonchalance of the statement, your stomach dropped with knowing. The cut on your hand stung when you clenched your fingers.

They had a few needs that needed addressing, like better access to lyrium and smaller issues ranging from armor and weapon polish to proper cookware, but none of them he presented as criticism nor grievance. Their belongings were plain, as they did not believe in wealth in material things - but you could not deny that they most certainly needed some embellishment to stay self-sufficient without a main base to call home. He was very polite and understanding in his requests, even giving you a list when you requested one, and you promised him you would take the matter to the quartermaster as soon as possible to see it resolved. He thanked you sincerely. When asked about the relations with the mages, he reported that most of his remaining templars were more kind-hearted and unobtrusive, unlike their former brethren. The ones who had hated mages the most had either gone rogue already before Therinfal or had departed on their journey to Haven, enraged by the thought of cooperating with them under the Inquisition. He divulged, personally, that they would not be missed, as they were poor soldiers who let their emotions and temperaments get the better of them more often than not - qualities that did not make for efficient peacekeepers. Caution, careful thinking, and patience were better, and abundant in the warriors he had left.

Little time you had known Barris, and yet you liked him a lot. He was soft-spoken and word-conscious, but firm and assertive when needed. You knew he’d make for a good compliment to Fiona, as they’d be forced to work together sooner rather than later. Level-headedness in both parties would take diplomacy and improved alliance a long way.

By the time you made it out of the templar camp, the sun was halfway down its descent towards the horizon. You frowned at it, knowing you weren’t exactly an early-bird, but you regretted that you’d wasted such precious time with your recklessness.

“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you today,” Dorian said as you both reached the main gates leading into the village. “The mages pushed me out as soon as they reached Haven, and I haven’t been able to help them since. It is good to know you’ve fostered at least a tentative peace between them.”

“I’m sure the rest of my advisors are wary of an outright battle breaking out on Haven’s front lawn,” you sighed, rubbing your face. “I’m glad we’ve received more recruits from the Hinterlands - maybe we’ll be able to contain anything that might happen.”

The altus quirked a brow with his smirk. “Oh? The ever-optimistic go-getter is worried? Maker forbid!”

You rolled your eyes. “I feel as though everyone expects me to imagine the best outcomes all the time.” Shaking your head, you turned and sat upon the steps next to the stone siding. Dorian joined you after brushing the snow from the bricks smoothed with feet uncountable through time. “I think the opposite more often than not, in fact. I just look for the best while preparing for the worst.”

“A good mentality to have, especially with how many outliers you have living in this little village,” he mused. “You’ve collected quite the interesting company.”

“And I’ve still got one more prospect on the Storm Coast,” you added, drawing patterns into the caked snow between your feet. The noise from the training ring had died down, as the soldiers had been released from drills and were likely on patrol and guard rotations or crowding the Singing Maiden like flies eager for a meal and drink after all their hard work. “But my focus right now is closing the Breach and preparing for the aftermath.”

Dorian looked inquisitive. “Aftermath? You think there will be backlash?”

“Possibly. Whenever I close a rift, there’s usually a shockwave, like putting a stopper in a tub that’s already draining. It chokes on itself, almost. I’m worried about the Breach doing the same, even with the templars and mages helping.”

He hummed in thought. “That is a possibility, yes, I suppose - but there is so little known about the Breach that no one could predict the outcome.”

“I’m aware.” You gave him a wry smile. “Worst case scenarios, remember?”

“And what will you do about your little ideas of further doom and destruction?” he queried.

“I would rather have the village evacuate until everything proves stable again,” you confessed with a heavy exhale, “but I realize that it’s not going to fly. They probably won’t want to and I understand that - their whole lives are and have been here, likely for generations now.” You swallowed, remembering red and black and bone, but forgetting it when you blinked. “The least I would want is for them to prepare to leave at a moment’s notice.”

“Understandable,” he echoed, tutting to himself. “It isn’t an unreasonable request. After they witnessed the Breach appearing to begin with, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting them to exercise caution.”

“Thank you.” Rubbing your aching temple, you gazed out over the frozen lake glittering in the fading sunlight. “I guess...maybe I give them too little credit. I’m used to dealing with stubborn people, especially after most of them blamed me for the Breach at first...I don’t know. They’ve made a complete one-eighty and I can’t walk three steps without someone calling me-”

“My lady Herald, if you’ve a moment?”

Dorian’s chuckle was almost fond. “I think you, dear girl, give only _yourself_ too little credit. These people respect you for what you’ve done for them, and there is no doubt in my mind that they would listen to you in a heartbeat.” He looked over his shoulder to the top of the stairs. “Ahh, Commander - fancy seeing you again so soon.”

When you looked, Cullen’s expression was tight as he studied the Tevine sitting almost close enough to brush his thigh against yours. His eyes flicked to you, and the furrow between his brows eased minutely. “I’ve sent for Leliana and Josephine to prepare the war table, if you aren’t…already occupied.”

“Of course. Thank you.” You eased yourself to your feet, grunting as your knees cracked and your muscles drew tight. You were still sore from...everything. You offered to help Dorian up, but he waved the gesture away and rolled much more easily upright. “Master Pavus, I shall see you soon.”

He grinned, the ends of his mustache curling with the creases in the corners of his mouth. “I certainly hope so. Deprived of the sight of you for longer than a day is such a pleasant torture I never expected to find in the south.”

You blinked, mildly confused. He made the slightest inclination of his head towards the commander, but you could’ve been imagining it.

Cullen cleared his throat, gesturing towards the interior of the village. “My lady. I believe they are waiting for us.”

“Yes, sorry.” You took the stairs two at a time, waving at Dorian over your shoulder. “Let’s g-”

The snow had been packed into ice near the top step, with more fluttering down by the minute than whatever poor worker was tasked with chipping it away could keep up with. The ball of your foot slipped slightly when you leaned your weight into it, but before you could really compensate for your balance Cullen’s arm snapped out. His long fingers grabbed your lurching forearm, pulling you upwards, making you stumble onto the landing. You nearly knocked your head into his pauldron.

“Sorry, sorry,” you blurted, “thank you.”

Cullen blinked at you, brows rising slightly.

“Do be careful,” Dorian offered from the ground. “I shan’t want the south’s so-claimed Herald’s blood on my clothes. Or my shoes. What would your lot ever think of me?”

You shook your head with a repressed chuckle of embarrassment, tossing him a rather unsavory gesture behind your back despite the Tevine’s rising laughter as you turned to walk through the gates (it was likely blasphemous, coming from you). It took a couple of beats for the commander to follow.

Cullen’s strides were long and purposeful, and it took two of yours to match his pace. You studied the tension in his form as subtly as you could, with lingering, sidelong glances. He still looked pinched.

You dared to go out on a limb. “Are you all right?”

When he glanced at you, whatever dourness disappeared as though unconscious and was replaced with surprise. “I, ah...yes?” A quirked brow and a bemused, lipped grin caused him to sigh and shake his head, refocusing on the path winding before you. “...Yes, I am. I apologize. It has just...it has been a long day.”

Your stomach dropped. “I’m sorry you didn’t get much sleep.”

“No, no-” His fingers flexed, causing the soft leather of his glove to creak. “-don’t apologize. Not for that. The recruits were being obtuse, and none of the guards at the gates really know how to announce the incoming caravans, and the sheer amount of miswritten reports-” He stopped, gave you a sheepish look. “-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain.”

“You’re in charge of an army, Cullen,” you told him with a soft laugh. “I think you earn the right to complain a little, even if it’s just to vent.”

“Ah. Yes, I suppose...you’re right. Still.” He waited for you at the secondary stairwell, allowing you to go up before him despite it being wide enough for eight people to walk by the shoulder. His arm brushed yours with every step. “...To be truthful, I have suffered a headache almost all day, and elfroot hasn’t helped it ease.”

You gave him a speculative look. “Have you drank any water today?”

“After the morning sprint,” he remarked offhandedly.

“...Is that all?” you pressed, perplexed.

His ears turned red. “...Ah...yes?”

“ _Cullen,_ ” you scolded, and the flush bled into the high arches of his cheeks steadily. “At least tell me you’ve eaten something.”

He neglected to answer you that time, looking towards the approaching chantry.

“Hey.” You reached out and grabbed the closest thing you could reach, being his elbow. He stopped instantly, so suddenly it almost made you run into him again. He truly was a mountain of a man, so tall he blocked out the sun and used its light for his own personal halo. You realized you had a crick in your neck that twinged as you craned your head back to look up at him. “You need to take care of yourself, Cullen. You’re just as important as everyone else, if not more for all the hard work you’re doing for them.” You squeezed his arm gently, offering him an impish grin you hoped looked playful rather than worried. “You can consider it an order if a friendly suggestion won’t sway you.”

His nose was scarlet. “...Yes, ma’am.”

The imitation of one of your little colloquialisms made a bright smile break out across your face. “Good. Now, shall we?”

He opened the door of the chantry for you and followed you inside. The incense made you sneeze, and he tried (and failed) to smother his snicker.

“...And on to the most pressing matter, now that everything else has been dealt with,” Josephine mused, drumming her manicured fingertips against her tablet. “How do you wish to proceed with the Breach, my lady Herald?”

With a deep exhale, you scrubbed your face as you studied the map of southern Thedas below you. Your eyes felt like balls of lead, eyelids heavier and limbs quivering minutely with fatigue. You had stayed unconscious for longer than you should ever have liked in the past two weeks, but your entire body made it feel as though you’d been flattened by a bullet train. Twice. Just because Thedas hadn’t already proven how much you shouldn’t be here with the sheer number of bears it had sent you in the Hinterlands.

(You’d ended up with enough pelts that you could have a full mountaineer set made. And with as cold as it got in the Frostbacks, it wasn’t a half-bad idea - but you’d already sent them to be made into blankets for the mage camp anyway. You didn’t particularly regret it.)

Upon their arrival to the war room and seeing your generally disheveled state, the latter two of your advisors had tried to encourage you to rest, to reduce the risk of repercussions to your health (yet again), but you had made it clear that the lives directly connected to the status of the Breach were more important for the time being. Cullen had reluctantly agreed upon being asked, much to your surprise - but his wry remark of their inability to sway your determination had shaken a soft chuckle from you, helping to ease your lingering nerves.

You were grateful they had yet to bring up the previous night, and seemed disinclined to do so.

“Do we know how the Breach is going to react to having so much energy put into it?” you posed as a starter, curling your fingers over your mouth and chin as you studied the thin lines of remarkably penned shading in the Korcari Wilds. Your eyes caught on Ostagar. “To have the templars suppressing it and the mages boosting the Mark...will there be any magical backlash?”

The others looked to Cullen, as though he would have the answer. A furrow appeared between his brows and he sighed. “I do not know. Solas would be the better one to ask in this matter - I have no true knowledge of the Breach, only personal speculation.”

You hummed quietly, trying to ignore how tight your stomach felt by chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Well. Since we’re uncertain...what would it take to have everyone in Haven ready to evacuate?”

“Evacuate?” Leliana echoed, raising a thin, ginger brow.

“Whatever for?” asked Josephine, puzzled.

You began to gesture with your free hand, a vague motion to the sky hidden by the chantry’s wooden rafters above you. “The explosion that rent the Breach in the first place killed everyone remotely close, for starters. And if we don’t know what closing it will do, then I would rather exercise caution than live with regret.”

“That is...a fair point,” the ambassador conceded, thumbing her quill thoughtfully. “But I doubt it will be a popular order, should it be made. There will especially be complaints with the visiting nobility.” The last was uttered a murmured afterthought.

“How long would you have them wait?” queried Leliana. “And where?”

“I worry for bandits that might take advantage down the mountainside,” Cullen remarked. “With the chaos it would cause, pickpockets will take everything unchecked for longer than a heartbeat.”

“Further into the mountains, perhaps?” suggested the spymaster.

“Maker, no!” Josephine gasped. “It is difficult as it is to keep those without walls and a roof warm here! To venture into the mountains could be fatal!”

“As opposed to the alternative?” Leliana returned.

You waved them to silence. “Listen. I know it’s a difficult request - but I ask that you attempt it first. If they resist, then at least require them to ready emergency packs should something happen.”

“You seem rather adamant something will,” Cullen remarked quietly, eyes thoughtful. “Do you have evidence to suggest so?”

You debated inwardly a long moment, chewing on the inside of your lip. Finally, you settled on, “Call it a gut feeling. I know it seems far fetched, but...please bear with me. I’m worried for everyone’s safety.”

Josephine’s expression softened. “I understand. Having everyone in Haven prepare would not be out of the question.”

“Including the Inquisition’s forces?” Leliana asked.

You nodded. “Everyone, to man, woman, and child. I don’t want anything or anyone left behind if we have to move.” You glanced down at the map again. “Have we received any more intelligence on the location of the Venatori or the red templars that disappeared from Therinfal?”

The Nightingale’s pale eyes felt like microscopes centered solely upon every nuance of your body language and words and tone. You wondered what she saw. “...Not yet. My agents have uncovered nothing. It’s almost as if they’ve retreated, now that you’ve the mages and templars under your employ. Should we anticipate an attack?”

“An attack?” Cullen parroted, brows furrowing.

Ah. She was just as perceptive as you’d feared.

“Like I said,” you murmured, fingering the hem of your shirt absently. “Just a gut feeling. But we should prepare for the absolute worst-case scenario, even if it doesn’t happen.”

Leliana watched you for a long moment, then dipped her hooded head. “...Very well. I will keep my scouts in the field to watch for any ambush.”

“I’ll have my men verify our siege equipment and armory, likewise,” the commander said fingers curling around the pommel of his sword. “Even if it’s a hunch...it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Anyone could attempt to take advantage of the potential chaos,” the ambassador supposed, mouth creasing with concern. “But if we prepare for it, then how bad could it be?”

 _Worse,_ you thought, the knot in your belly finally coalescing into a dense lump of pure dread. _Worse than anything you could imagine._

“Have you any concern for how closing the Breach will affect you, Herald?” Cullen asked after a long beat of silence. “Every time you’ve interacted with it, it’s resulted in a long, harsh physical recovery. Are you well enough to deal with it?”

You looked up at him, uncertain. “I...don’t know. But I want this done. Tomorrow, preferably. The sooner the better. Can we have everyone in Haven prepared by then?”

“I suspect, if they are under the right amount of pressure,” the spymaster answered. “Will you march at midday?”

“Will the mages and templars be ready by then?” you asked Cullen.

“I suspect so. Many have already come to me with questions about your plans.”

You nodded. “Good. Then midday will suffice.” You paused, then gave them all a lingering look. “...I hope everything goes all right.”

“I am certain it will,” Josephine soothed with a bright, pearly smile. “I have my doubts you will ever fail us, my lady Herald.”

 _No pressure._ You sighed. “Alright.” You waved towards their individual stacks of missives and reports they’d already dissected for you. “Have the orders put out before first light, but warn them before nightfall so they’re not caught unaware. Everyone try to get some rest - I suspect we’ll all need it.”

“You as well,” Cullen said, gaze pointed, as if expressing a double meaning.

A little smile broke over your face, despite your general dread. “I’ll certainly try.”

The Breach was much bigger and much colder up close. You’d almost forgotten.

You did your best to stifle the shivers that wracked your frame despite your armor and thick leather underclothes - the air was thin and made it difficult to breathe. Your shoulders ached from the weight of the metal weighing on you, but it gave you some comfort to know you had some protection if something went wrong.

You knew it wouldn’t. But you also didn’t. Everything was the same, yet different.

The Mark prickled your skin as you tugged the gauntlet free, pins and needles just on this side of pain. It sparked and spat, flaring in time with the Breach far over your head. The rift caused the hair on the back of your neck to stand up, your skin itching as though there were static lacing every square inch.

“Mages! Templars!”

Cassandra and Solas were there, just behind you, rallying the strongest enchanters and warriors as they stood tall and attentive, forming a wall of armor and staves.

“Focus past the Herald! Let her will draw from you!”

Your signal.

You pressed through the bands of mana pressing down upon you, teeth gritted and eyes squinted - you could almost feel the whispers, hear the presence of the Fade. You wondered if this is what Dorian had meant - the cold clung to your bones like the grip of a frostbitten hand, deep and aching. Winter’s breath chilled your skeleton and _squeezed._

You heard the clang of metal behind you, war cries rising up into the sky - you felt the embrace of numerous castings of the same strengthening spell fall upon you like a mantle, saw the rift flutter and wane as the templars suppressed it. The sheer intensity of the feeling stole your breath, even as you extended your hand over your head and _reached._

An ear-rattling _crack_ echoed through the cratered remains of the temple. The air grew still, and the mana began to drain like a stopper let out of the washbasin all at once. You could sense it in the way the hair along your arms relaxed.

Then, the recoil.

The shockwave from the implosion of magical energy knocked every person present flat on their back. The air was punched straight out of your lungs, seizing your abdomen and making you gasp weakly. You watched, dazed, ears ringing, as the rift compacted and disappeared, coiling the bands of energy cycloning into the Breach like rope around a fist and snapping them into nothingness. The hole in the sky shuddered and warbled, faltering in its endless spiral - the eye of the arcane hurricane clenched shut, and the Breach stitched itself closed.

The cheers around you slowly faded back into your awareness, and Cassandra’s face appeared over your own, pinched with concern. She knelt beside you, eyes passing over your trembling form, but the tightness in her shoulders eased as she reached out to you. Relief must have had a strong hold on her, because she smiled toothily at you. “You did it.”

You gripped the hand she offered, stumbling to your feet. Winded and worn, you turned to face the crowd of gleeful mages and templars crying out in joy as the light in the heavens rapidly faded. Your knees were in danger of giving out from the strain of keeping you upright, but Cassandra’s fingers were tight around your wrist and it grounded you just enough to salute to the lot of them. Solas was the most composed of all of them, but there was a crinkle in the corner of his mouth as you passed him with ginger steps.

“It would be for the best if you rested,” he told you in a hushed tone, taking your other arm. His touch was lighter, more careful, but you could feel a rush of magic pouring over your head like warmed honey. It made your toes tingle, and you felt less light-headed. You thanked him with a tiny nod and a squeeze to his elbow. “I suspect everyone will want to celebrate.”

“I’ll just be glad if I can eat,” you said, stomach twisting as the bottom of it fell out and let out a malcontent gurgle. Your meager, anxious breakfast from the previous day had finally caught up with you.

The trek back to Haven was slow but steady - at least on your part. Many of the mages and templars, energized and joyful, had marched ahead in their eagerness to share the good news. But with every step you took towards the village nestled in the mountains, your blood felt as though it were growing colder and colder - and it didn’t have anything to do with the retreating sunlight. By the time you passed through the outermost gate by the lake at the tail-end of the procession, apprehension was thrumming like a livewire just under your skin. You were cold, and hungry, and terrified to your prey animal core - and you hated that you didn’t completely know what you were facing, what you were causing every person in Haven to face.

You wished you’d convinced them to evacuate after all.

The townspeople were all cherry-cheeked and giddy when you shuffled your way to the main gates thrown wide open, bonfires littering the valley with pots and carcasses pitched over them to cook. The scent of bread was strong, the tang of liquor stronger, and you bit the inside of your lip when you saw your companions all circled around the central fire at the top of the stairs all reveling in merriment. The sharpness of iron on your tongue didn’t compare to the dread you felt.

Whispers of ‘your Worship’ and ‘my lady’ followed you as you mosied your way towards the chantry, callings of your surname and boisterous cheers for your health and success filled the smoky night air, and you could scarcely draw enough mental fortitude to acknowledge or recognize them beyond a nod and a mumble of thanks. The yard in front of the chantry was crowded with people eager to catch a glimpse of you, and you saw Leliana and Josephine with a cluster of dignitaries that had the misfortune of having arrived that day. There was wine and cheese and wafers and you couldn’t decide on whether you wanted any or not.

You slipped unnoticed into the chantry, grateful for the silence within its towering stone walls.

The torches were burning low, as all the sisters were out and about dealing with the village. The light was a dusky orange that caused the crimson carpet to appear as blood spilled on the floor, coarse and thick against your fingers when you carefully tumbled to your knees before one of the many statues lining each pillar leading to the makeshift war room. You sank against the base, closing your eyes with a sigh as the cold marble kissed your cheek. Curling into a ball, you tried to block out the images and sounds and words you couldn’t place.

“Are you all right?”

Cullen was still in his armor. Perhaps he had taken your warnings to heart, after all. Or perhaps it was just his proclivity for staying on duty at all times. His hair was fuller, though, as though he’d washed it without replacing the pomade in it. It curled against his hairline, brushed back by fingers instead of a comb, and barely contained. His face was soft, bathed in the firelight, and you could see he was freshly shaven. The delicate filigree of the chantry backdrop truly did him no justice.

You gazed up at him, feeling empty and bursting at the seams all at once. You almost wished your voice would break so you wouldn’t have to speak. It did crack, just a bit, from your thirst. “Tired. Worried. Have the arrangements been made?”

His brows furrowed. “Yes, as you requested. But there have been no signs of any repercussions from the Breach’s recession, or of any threat to the scouts on the outermost perimeters. I suspect Leliana will withdraw them within the hour to partake in the celebration. Are you certain your hunch was right?”

You wanted to laugh. All that left you was a chuff of breath. “Maybe. I will not be able to rest easy until we find out.”

Your words troubled him, you could tell. He let out an almost inaudible exhale, stepping closer and sitting against the adjacent pillar, crossing his legs and slouching at the shoulders. The unexpectedness of the pose, child-like and sincere, did manage to startle a soft laugh out of you. He tilted his head, inquisitive, but did not question it.

“Have you eaten?” he asked instead. “There is stew in the tavern, a traditional Fereldan recipe. If all the soldiers have not eaten it all, I would suggest it. Flissa did well to replicate it.”

You shook your head, folding your arms over your knees to hide the lower half of your face.

“Would you like a drink?” he pressed. “Surely you are thirsty. You look exhausted.”

“I am. I couldn’t sleep.” You dropped your forehead against your gauntlet, squeezing your eyes shut and listening to the even, measured breaths leaving him, the crackle of oil in the braziers. “Go socialize, Cullen. It will do you better than to sit and worry with me the whole night.”

There was a pause. Then, quietly, “I would rather ensure you are not alone, if you are intent to worry all night.”

You peered at him with one eye. He was resolute, unmoving, and such a large man to be sitting in such a way. You wished you could get a picture, or at least sketch it for longevity.

You smiled, even if he couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”

He dipped his head.

The both of you sat in relative silence for an uncertain duration of time, listening to the quiet. As your ears adjusted, you could make out the music and laughter and shuffle of feet in the snow as the villagers danced and sang filtering through the great oak doors. You noticed Cullen tapping his foot after a while, a barely perceptible action even he seemed unaware of. He’d rested his temple against the swell of the column, eyes closed, the corners of his mouth tight as he did his best to appear relaxed.

He was doing about as poor of a job as you were.

“Why are you here?” you asked him quietly, feeling exposed by breaking the mantle of lack of conversation.

He cracked an eye open and quirked a brow. “Well. I am sure I need not explain the process of child-rearing to you, seeing as you are a grown adult as well as I...”

You laughed outright, straightening and clutching your stomach as it burned with the strain of the shock. Your cheeks ached. “Cullen!”

“...and after you interviewed me - extensively, might I add, to the point of Leliana’s men-”

“ _Cullen!_ ”

“- I can only say that I hid myself away in the chantry to maintain my disposition as being the ‘chronically uninteresting wallflower’ Varric has claimed me to be, on multiple occasions.”

“Good God,” you wheezed, digging your fingertips into your eyes to hide the moisture gathering there. The plating on your shoulders felt inexplicably lighter. Your smile was immovable. “Cullen, I can’t believe…”

He blinked, innocently. “What? That I answered your question? Or that Varric’s incessant teasing has bore me further into my ‘hermitious tendencies’?”

“No,” you chortled, biting the corner of your lip. Everything above your clavicles felt hot. “That you’re admitting to be _antisocial_.”

He shrugged, and the fur of his mantle teased the edges of his hair. “Is it such a sin to seek contemplation where others look for noise and drink to celebrate?” He paused, then rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepish. His eyes fell away to the floor off towards the middle of the chantry hall. “No, I was...praying. Thanking the Maker for his guidance and blessing. He kept the lot of you safe.”

You noticed the fresh incense smoldering on the base of the statue closest to Josephine’s office. It reminded you of cloves and cinnamon. “...Thank you,” you murmured at length, touched that he’d taken the time to do so. It was a tender-hearted gesture and would likely have gone unspoken had you never run into him here, now. You recalled, abruptly, his absence before the bells had begun to toll, and wondered at the path you were inadvertently taking to discover such sacred secrets you had never even stopped to consider. “I probably need all the help I could get.”

Tension you had failed to notice building in his form released after your admission, and his eyes warmed. “I had faith you were capable enough to close the Breach. I was actually pleading in the case for the mages and templars not to fight with each other long enough to get the job done.”

That meant he’d been dedicating thought to it all day, at the very least. Your heart did an odd little flutter.

You heard a gurgle that was most definitely not you.

You curled your fingers into the bulge of your knee plates, willing away the smile threatening to tug at your lips. “...Have _you_ eaten today, Cullen?”

He had the decency to look admonished. His ears turned red. “...No.” When you rolled your eyes, his face scrunched in indignation. “I was _fasting-_ ”

“You _forgot_ ,” you corrected. “If I know you at all, you got busy with your work again and _forgot-_ ”

“-There was much preparation to do,” he started, voice rising incrementally. There was mirth in his eyes again, and it glittered like gold - and just as precious. “-as you ordered, _Herald-_ ”

“But that doesn’t mean you should-” You stood abruptly, wobbling a bit, but reached down to grab his forearms. You pulled with all your strength, leaning back into your heels, and all it did was pull him into sitting up straight. His facade shattered with the boyish grin that broke out over his face. “Come on, Rutherford, I’m getting food in you before you _collapse_ , or wither away and get blown to dust by the wind.”

“Oh?” he questioned. “You and what army?”

You paused, considering, then looked him directly in the eye. “Cassandra would never let you hear the end of it.”

The genuine fear of an unconsidered factor that flickered into his expression made you laugh hard enough that it weakened your thighs.

“Fine, fine,” he shushed, making a batting gesture in an effort to quiet your manic, self-proclaimed victory as he stood with crackling knees, “but only if you do the same. I can and _will_ tattle just as mercilessly.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, swinging at his arm and biting back a grin as he dodged easily. “Cullen Rutherford, I’d bet you’ve never tattled in your _life-_ ”

“As though I didn’t have an older sibling who constantly sought my getting scolded,” he retorted, pushing the chantry door open and gesturing you out into the crisp night air. “It would be a bet I’d barter, for I would surely win.”

You opened your mouth to respond, heart jumping against the inside of your chest with a giddiness that forgot everything you’d been burdened with just twenty minutes prior. Only the start of a consonant managed to leave your throat when the urgent, echoing bellow of a horn swept down into the valley, just audible over the din. The people packed onto every square inch of sitting space did not seem to hear it.

Cullen was walking along the path that looped down and around the right side of the inner village, still talking. You sprinted to catch up with him, grabbing his arm tightly and pulling him to face you. “Cullen, did you - did you hear-”

No longer than the words left your mouth that another horn, a mite louder, sounded, from a slightly different direction. The commander froze, his entire frame going rigid and stiff within a heartbeat. His eyes and face turned cold with alertness.

“The scouts,” he breathed, any and all color leaving his skin.

You squeezed his arm, and his eyes locked onto you like javelins. You spoke in unison. _“The bells.”_

Both of you broke for the north end of the village, nearly barreling over drunken men and timid young maids, frantic and harried in your calls for people’s attention. Your voice was hoarse already, and you’d only just begun shouting.

It had only just begun.

“Forces approaching!” Cullen roared, his voice echoing off the houses and walls around the both of you. “To arms!”

Eyes upon eyes snapped to him, sudden silence falling over the village - then, in the span of a child’s breath, all hell broke loose.

The guards in the watchtower began to ring the bell, the deep, teeth-rattling clangs setting you on edge. Cries of alarm and fear bubbled up and spilled over, women crying for their children and men shouting at each other to find their weapons or farm implements. Soldiers were pouring out of the tavern towards the gates, pulling on their helmets and drawing their swords.

You jumped to the side as you and Cullen reached the stairs, climbing up and clinging to the neck of the vigilant, snarling mabari. Your voice broke out over the cacophony, your hands cupped around your mouth. “Villagers, refugees! Collect your emergency packs and head to the chantry! Take only what is absolutely necessary! Get the children and elderly there first, then worry about additional supplies!”

The flocking masses heeded your words, parting like streams of water to obey. Packs of women gathered their children and babes into their arms, bustling them towards the chantry. Men ran for their homes, slamming the doors open and bringing out sacks bursting with things they’d packed.

You spied Cullen mounting the statue opposite you, following your lead. He focused on the recruits staring up at him with terror and uncertainty. “All of you, help whomever you can! Get the horses from the stables out of harm’s way!” He looked over the tall, barricaded walls, and you saw him still with fear. His tone turned harsh with protectiveness. “Do not - this is a direct order - _do not_ engage with the enemy unless _absolutely_ necessary! Focus on pulling all resources back into safety first!”

“Cullen?!”

You looked down to see Cassandra breathing heavily, sword and shield ready and glinting in the moonlight. The man dropped down from the statue, brows furrowed. You followed suit, hurrying over.

“Commander!” A duo of scouts limped through the front gates, one of them supporting the other. Blood dripped from the wounded woman’s side, and the man was severe in countenance. A healer met them, taking the woman and guiding her into the flowing mass of people towards the chantry. “I’ve - we came as soon as we could, but we were caught unaware-”

“Watchman!” Cullen called, rushing down the stairs to meet him. You and Cassandra were quick to do the same. “Report - now!”

“It’s a _massive_ army, under no banner,” the scout said, out of breath, gesturing towards the steepening range towards the north with his arm - you saw blood soaking both his glove and the blades strapped to his hips, “and the most of it is over the mountain - but they’re moving fast, ser, and we don’t have much time. Whatever we are to do, we must do it now.”

A herd of footsteps approached from behind, and you turned to see the rest of your circle. Some of them had stopped to assist hindered people up the stairs, but Josephine and Leliana made it to you first.

“What is happening?” Josephine queried, face pale with fright.

“Josephine,” Cassandra responded, sounding incredulous.

“No time for that,” you said, cutting them off. All eyes turned to you. “We have to get everyone to safety. I mean _everyone_ \- put only who is needed out there. I don’t want any heroic sacrifices.”

“Easier said than done,” Cullen told you gravely. “We have to send _someone_ out to deter them to buy us more time.”

“Do we even know who we’re facing?” Leliana pressed, lip curled. Her fingers twitched on the bowstring slung across her chest, and her eyes locked onto the scout. “Charter?”

“Tevinter-looking mages, serrah,” he reported, “and templars - but there’s something wrong with the lot of them. They’re all red, with - with some sort of crystal growing out of their bodies. I’ve never seen anything like that before!”

“I have,” Varric growled, jaw clenched. “I knew it was too easy.”

Explosions rattled the metal locks on the gates, magefire flaring against the darkness. 

You looked to the two women. “Get your people safe. We need to determine just what we’re up against before we can do anything else.”

As soon as they nodded, you ran for the front gates. You saw a cluster of both red templars and Venatori lying dead and bleeding on the ground, and witnessed a defender fall face-first into the dirt. 

And there stood Cole, speckled with liquid scarlet. You bit your lip, rushing towards him. “ _Cole._ Are you okay?”

“I came to warn you,” he breathed, voice tense. “People are coming to hurt you.” His hat lifted enough that he gazed at you with a glassy blue iris through his matted locks of cotton. “You already know.”

Cullen bounded up to you, the length of his sword gripped in his hand. Soldiers were pouring out of the gates now, to either side - the trebuchets, you were certain. His expression was thunderous. “What is this, what’s going on? Who are you?”

“His name is Cole,” you told him, waving him back. “He’s a friend.”

“They come to kill you,” the boy said grimly.

You shot him a frustrated glance.

“What?” Cullen demanded. “We have them all here - who is left to attack?” He bared his teeth, looking between the two of you. “Is this the Imperium’s response to our talks with them - attacking blindly?”

“The red templars and the angry mages went to the Elder One, before you ever came,” Cole explained, looking at you. “You know him? He knows you. You took his mages _and_ his templars.” He turned, and pointed towards a crest just above the treeline. You saw a man and a woman, and your heart seized with remembrance - Samson and Calpernia. And then-

“I know that man,” Cullen breathed. “But her? And this ‘Elder One’?”

Cole shifted to stand in front of you, as though shielding you from the blighted one’s gaze. “He is very angry,” he murmured, “that you took them all.”

“Cullen-” you pleaded, throat seizing, “-give me a plan, anything!”

“Haven is no fortress,” he said, “if we are to withstand his monster, we _must_ control the battle.” He scowled. “Get out there and hit that force, with everything you can.”

You swallowed, sweat springing into your pores.

Cullen’s gaze lingered on you for a second too long, hesitating, before his lips thinned and he drew his sword once more. He marched towards the mass of capable mages and anxious templars escorting the rest of their groups into the village walls. “Mages, you! You have sanction to engage them! That is Samson, he will not make it easy! Templars, to arms! These Venatori are of Tevine design, and unused to your full capabilities - make them hurt for it! Work together, not against each other - it’s the only way we’ll be able to beat them back!” He gestured towards the soldiers. “Inquisition, with the Herald - for your lives, for all of us!”

As he thrust the blade into the air as a signal, a choir of warcries rose up in deafening volume. You watched, awestruck, as he led the charge - the silverite-clad templars made a formation around the robed mages, guiding them down the embankment towards the torches that were clearing the outer gates. They moved fast, and soon spells and dispulsions were lighting up the night like fireworks. You lost sight of Cullen in the fray, just like that.

Your stomach clenched, and not from hunger.

Cassandra appeared at your side, gripping your arm. “Herald, we must help to load the trebuchets - we must slow them down however we can!”

“Yes, right,” you choked out. You turned to the boy beside you. “Cole, I want you to help the villagers and the refugees. You can get in and out of places, and you can-”

He frowned. “But you need-”

“Cole, please,” you pleaded, reaching out to touch his elbow. “I want as few innocent lives lost as possible. I need your help to ensure that.”

He hesitated, but nodded. Then he was gone.

You did not forget.

“What now?” Varric asked.

You realized the rest of your circle had emerged, and you spied Blackwall helping the last few stragglers into the village before shutting the gates and calling for the guards to lock them. You gritted your teeth, reaching for your sword and shield. They were heavy in your hands, but not nearly as heavy as your heart.

You nodded to them, determined. “Let’s go.”

As it would turn out, trebuchets are much easier to load and fire than they were shown in the media from your world. When you weren’t beating back soldiers and enchanters with blow after blow after blow, blocking where you could, and shielding the soldiers trying to get the machine loaded and cranked. The archers, you decided, were the worst of the bunch - they would hide in the trees and behind the boulders scattered around and try to pick off the men and women fighting the warriors with heavy armor that could deflect even Cassandra’s mighty blows. An arrow had struck you in the junction of your armor between your hip and thigh, but it was courtesy of the mail underneath it that kept you from being pierced.

You did get a cleaver to the side, at one point, however, when you were distracted with helping to defend your mages against a line of templars - you were certain it had cracked at least one rib, because you could no longer take a full breath without pain lancing up your side. Vivienne had tried to heal you once the wave of adversaries had been dealt with, but the trebuchet successfully firing and striking the broad side of the eastern mountain to cause an avalanche had distracted the both of you.

So had the dragon.

 _Get to the gates,_ you reminded yourself, arms and legs quivering as you helped those knocked down by the blast of hellfire to their feet before urging them to run for it. _Keep going,_ you told yourself, stopping to bust down the crates that had fallen over Harritt’s door. _Don’t stop,_ you begged, staggering as the beast swooped in overhead and let out a blood-chilling screech.

“Move it - _move it!_ ”

You ushered your party into the village walls, hurrying through and trying to catch your breath as Cullen and a couple of soldiers sealed the great wooden doors. He was panting heavily, face dripping with sweat, his armor soaked with snow and blood. His hair had come loose in the fray and now tumbled down, dripping, into his eyes. “We need everyone back to the chantry!” he ordered. “It’s the only building that might hold against - that _beast!_ At this point, just make them _work_ for it.”

You couldn’t agree more.

“Is the entire village evacuated?” you asked, remembering failed attempts in the past. “Has anyone made sure?”

“Not yet,” Cullen said, frowning - all of you peered up into the sky as the dragon swooped overhead. An explosion sounded just beyond the gates and smoldering splinters rained - another trebuchet down. “I can send men to do so-”

“Get to the chantry,” you told him, “count heads. We’ll make a sweep.”

“There isn’t time-” he protested, brows furrowing, but the ground shook, and you spied torches towards the eastern gate.

“ _Go_ , Commander!” you ordered, and to his credit, he didn’t hesitate again. The men followed him, and you turned to address your followers. “Split into teams of three, warrior, rogue, mage - one to the east side, one to the west, one to the north. Go through all the buildings, make sure everyone is clear - if you run into any more templars or Venatori, avoid them as best you can. We have to make this quick, and we don’t have time for them to draw this out.”

Everyone nodded, and instantly split: Blackwall, Sera, and Vivienne went to the west side, Varric, Cassandra, and Solas headed for the chantry, and Dorian stayed with you.

“An even number against the odds,” he quipped, then gestured for the east. “Shall we?”

You nodded, and the two of you broke for the lane of cabins just inside the wall. Dorian took the right side and you took the left, peering through the doors and making quick evaluations of the two-roomed cabins. There was furniture and decorations scattered about on the floor, some shattered and broken in haste, but not a person was to be found.

“Clear!” you called, and moved to the next one.

Three cabins further from that one, and you reached yours. Gut twisting, you hurried inside, relieved that everything had been left as you’d prepared it - everything useful or sentimental you’d shoved into the rucksack tied and placed on your bed. You grabbed it and slung it across your shoulder, hoping the more delicate things wouldn’t break in the chaos to come.

“This lane is all clear!” Dorian called. “But I hear fighting towards the chantry! We need to move!”

You hurried out of the cabin, biting your lip to refrain from lingering. “On it!”

Once you topped the stairs, you could see the flashes of magic on the main plaza. You were about to hop over the stone fence when you heard a winded call for help from the inside of the cabin to your left. Seggrit.

“Go! I’ll get him out!” you told Dorian, drawing your shield and throwing yourself against the wall. The altus was quick to join the others, defending the small group of villagers fighting with Threnn. It took several attempts, but finally the crates behind the door budged, and you entered the blazing house.

“H-Herald!” the merchant wheezed, face smudged with soot. He’d pressed himself against the wall to avoid the smoke. He coughed heavily, lungs rattling - you crouched and hauled him to his feet, grunting under the strain of a full grown man on your shoulders. “Thank you - _thank you!_ Maker bless you!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you hissed, guiding him out into the noisy night. By the time you shuffled him to the chantry, the four had dismantled the templars trying to break through the doors. Threnn and the others were hurrying into the chantry, and Blackwall, Vivienne, and Sera all were toting Adan, Minaeve, and Flissa along with their various injuries.

“I’d meant to get the potions,” you heard the apothecary mumbling, even as Blackwall passed him off to a soldier. “There’s - there’s burns, and-”

“You can craft more,” the warden told him, consolingly.

Sera and Vivienne let Minaeve and Flissa go, and another bellowing roar from the dragon striking the base of the village urged the rest of you into the Inquisition’s makeshift fortress. Roderick coaxed them inside, collapsing, and Cole caught him.

The slam of the doors echoed off the walls, ringing in your ears.

“He tried to stop a templar,” the boy murmured. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”

The priest had enough awareness to be wry. “What a charming boy.”

The villagers, refugees, and troops were all cramped inside the walls, children wailing in distress as their mothers failed to console them. Some of them were already heading down into the dungeons, the absolute last resort - perhaps they hoped that the chantry collapsing upon the lower levels would hide them and keep them safe from the Elder One and his men.

 _The Elder One._ Something cold and certain coiled around the base of your spine. Yet you were still missing something, and it was causing every last nerve in your body to fire incessantly, like deja-vu but backwards - you knew you knew it, but you couldn’t remember, no matter how hard you tried.

You felt unbearably, viscerally tired.

Cullen trotted around the corner, arms full of supplies in bags. He passed them off to a couple of chantry sisters, speaking in low tones. He saw you after, and hurried to you. “Herald, our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.”

Cole helped Roderick to sit in a chair in the corner. “I’ve seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

Cullen grimaced. “I don’t care what it looks like! It’s cut a path for that army! They’ll kill everyone in Haven.”

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” the boy pressed, “he only wants the Herald.”

You steeled your resolve, curling your fingers into fists. “He can have me, if it’ll help these people survive.”

“It won’t,” Cole fretted, fiddling with the patchy material of his gloves. “He wants to kill you - no one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway...I don’t like him.”

“You ‘don’t like’-” Cullen stopped, scowled, shook his head, and refocused on you. “ _Herald._ There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche - we could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

“The village is falling, and they’re finding cracks in the perimeters,” you responded, shaking your head. “Doing that would destroy them _and_ us.”

“We’re dying, but we can decide how.” He sighed, nearly imperceptible. It was a withdrawn, resigned sound. “...Many don’t get that choice.”

The priest looked towards the back of the chantry, and Cole tilted his head as though listening to words unspoken. “...Yes, that. Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies.”

Roderick drew a shallow, shaky breath. “There is a path - you wouldn’t know it, unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage, as I have. The people _can_ escape. She must have shown me - _Andraste_ must have shown me so I can t-tell you. It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start - it was overgrown. Now, with so many in the conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers...I - I don’t know. If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident - _you_ could be more.”

Underground cave systems laced the mountainside - Leliana’s report had reminded you so. “What about it, Cullen - will it work?”

He dared to look hopeful. “Possibly, if he shows us the path.” He shook his head, questioning. “But what of your escape?”

You had no answer for him. You turned, instead, and faced the chantry doors to collect yourself. You couldn’t let your fear show, now.

“Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way.”

You certainly hoped so.

Footsteps echoed, clacks of mail and armor. “Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry. Move!”

Cole helped the man to his feet, slinging his arm over his shoulders. The man pinned you with his bloodshot, shadowed gaze. “Herald. If you are meant for this - if the Inquisition is meant for this - oh, I pray for you.”

You reached out and grasped his shoulder, giving him as kind of an expression as you could manage. “Thank you, Roderick. Andraste guide you.”

He was humbled enough by your words that his eyes watered. Cole led him away, gingerly.

Cullen returned to your side with a legion of men already sprinting out of the doors into the crackling outside air. “They’ll load the trebuchets. Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the treeline. If we are to have a chance - if _you_ are to have a chance - let that thing hear you.”

You hesitated. Your fingers itched. You bit the inside of your lip.

“Cullen,” you said.

He blinked. “Yes?”

You clenched your hands into fists. “If I don’t make it back…”

The commander shook his head, defiant. “Don’t.” He reached out and clamped a hand over your shoulder, steadying - your heart felt a bit lighter. “Later.”

Sucking in as deep of a breath as you could manage without wincing, you finally nodded. “Blackwall, Dorian, Sera! With me!”

The air was hot and rank with blood and smoke and ash.

It turned out Denam hadn’t died at Therinfal. The sheer amount of red lyrium jutting out of his broken, barely recognizable form made you nauseous. The others seemed just as troubled, and were relieved when the monstrosity finally fell. You sent the Inquisition soldiers away, urging them to run as fast as possible.

The trebuchet was locked in and ready, despite the continual onslaught - the corrupted templars fell back once their leader finally failed, however, for which you were grateful.

But it was not just for him.

The dragon was almost silent as it dove, belching fire and smoke that exploded upon impact with the red lyrium shards scattered across the ground. The shockwave of it threw even Blackwall off of his feet, scattering the lot of you. You managed to suck in a breath, considerably closer to the trebuchet than the others. The horses the soldiers had left for you all were squealing in terror, pulling on their reins tied to the fence posts.

Your voice was frail, but firm. “Move - now!”

They hesitated, stumbling to their feet. Dorian made to move towards you.

“Direct order!” Panic seized you. The dragon was closing in again, fast. “ _Go!_ ”

With lingering, worried stares, they obediently hopped onto the mounts and dashed off into the shivering trees.

You didn’t even make it to your knees.

Screech, billow, _bang._ You were thrown again, further from the trebuchet, and your head struck something hard and unyielding - a stone, dashed with your blood, your vision fuzzy, thoughts fuzzier.

Everything was in vignettes after that.

Fear. Cold. Trembling. Fire licking at your skin, the deafening roar of a creature so unnatural. Stinging, burning pain, your hand glowing so brightly it nearly blinded you. A pull irresistible. Defiance in the face of death. _Fear._

_Corypheus._

Sword heavy, body weak, vision blurred - _there,_ above the mountains. A light, an arrow, an arcing star against the clouds and smoke. Relief. _They’re safe._

“You thought I wanted to listen to your soliloquy?” You spat, blood welling from your split lip and scalding your tongue. “Save it for all your corpses!”

A swift kick, the rumble of machinery - crack of stone, roar of ice, running, sprinting, stumbling, falling, darkness.

Nothing.

“Shit.”

Pain lanced up your spine, barbed and searing, and settled into the cradle of your skull. It felt like a drum between your temples, throbbing behind your eyes and making them feel as though they could burst at any moment. You cracked an eye open, the other feeling oddly stiff and sticky.

You touched your forehead, finding drying, tacky blood caking your skin. The pain was immeasurable, and it hurt to even see. Your eye was swollen shut, and iron had dried out your tongue. You rolled weakly onto your side, letting out a pathetic mewl as you ached to your bones.

If that blow had weakened your ribs, the fall into this chasm had shattered them. Two, at least. Your belly was tender and tight even under your battered armor, and you wondered about the dangers of internal bleeding.

_You had to find them._

Whimpers were easy. Letting out little cries of agony gave you the strength to crawl to your feet, using a pillar of ice to stand. Your ankle gave out beneath you, the tendons snapping audibly within your boots.

“ _Shit._ ”

It was a very slow trek through the caves.

You had no idea if you were going the right way. It was dark and dank and cold, and water seemed to cling to every surface you brushed against or stumbled into. You could scarcely see your hand in front of your face, let alone the ground beneath your feet.

The mark was going crazy.

Where it had been only a numbed, muffled tingle before, now it was wracked with spasms that spluttered and spat, mana pouring out of it and making your muscles cramp. Corypheus had agitated it, had tried to - _God,_ he’d actually tried to rip it from your body.

It had bonded to you. It was stuck there. There was no removing it.

“ _Shit,_ ” you whispered fiercely, clutching your wrist. The light was filtering even through the thick hide of your gauntlet.

You wanted a warm bed. You wanted _your_ warm bed, and your cat, and the forgotten mug of tea on the nightstand making a ringed stain you’d have to scrub out later. You wanted the thick, red and white plaid, flannel blanket slung over the back of your loveseat and the books bordering the mantle and the small faux fireplace under your television. You wanted the leftover food in the fridge, your bathroom, the shower in it, so you could actually feel clean. You wanted _home._

And yet you couldn’t have it.

You were stuck here, in a not-so-fictional world, as real as the blood dripping steadily into your eye and from your jaw onto your breastplate. It was the worst pain you’d ever felt, all over, more intense than even the time you’d broken your first bone (and last, at the time). You could barely think straight.

Keep moving.

The demons in the mouth of the cave were righteous bastards. How they’d gotten there, you didn’t know - the rift was tiny compared to the rest you’d faced, and the implosion of energy the mark released when you’d reached for it had nearly knocked you flat on your ass.

 _Mark of the Rift,_ a voice whispered into the back of your mind.

“Pain in the ass,” you grumbled back.

The voice said nothing more, for which you were grateful.

Stepping out into the full brunt of the mountain-brewed blizzard was a shock that managed to sober your hazy mind - but it was at the cost of losing feeling in your feet the instant you stepped off into the snow. It was a small mercy, however, as you no longer had to favor your bad ankle as much. Tightening the brace around it was all you could do for it for the time being.

With every step, powerful tremors rocked your frame. Never had you felt quite as tiny as you did trudging through the knee-deep drifts, gazing up at the towering fir trees that bowed to the howling wind, squinting through the snow up to the peaks arching into the clouded, ominous sky. You heard nothing but the air rushing past you, soaking through your clothes, chilling you to the bone. Breath juddered out of your lungs in clouds of mist that were swept away in the blink of an eye. Your heart thudded heavily against your ribs, the only reminder that you weren’t entirely frozen.

It seemed that you trekked on for hours. The numbness crawled steadily up your ankles, through your calves, into your knees, and you were probably hobbling like a corpse by the time it reached your hips. You could no longer feel your hands, even though you’d shoved them as deep into your cloak as possible. Your nose was but a jut of ice on the front of your face, your lips cracked and bleeding. Your ears ached, but the pain was fading. You knew it wasn’t a good sign, but you could find so little energy to care.

You were unable to form an articulate thought when you reached the true foothold of the mountains. The remnants of wood and metal and fire you’d found along the way had been cold and forgotten, not worth stopping for. But there, nestled at the base of a boulder, were embers still smoldering in the lee of the stone, sheltered from the punishing wind. You sank into the snow, holding your hands out to the sparks as close as you dared. You felt only the faintest lick of warmth, and then the direction of the wind changed and snuffed them.

You let out a low, warbling keen of desperation, dropping your forehead to the frozen ground. Hot tears welled up in your eyes, but as soon as they slid down your cheeks they chilled and frosted in place. Your sobs were heavy and deep, and you curled up into as tight of a ball as you could manage.

You were so very tired. You could no longer feel the pain in your body, for the cold had replaced it. A greedy, biting maw, it gripped you with no intent to let go.

You whimpered, inaudible over the wind. You just wanted to be warm again.

Your eyes fell shut, and you sank back into unconsciousness.

_“You are a changeling fallen through the mistake boiling out of the heavens - you were never meant to be, and you were never meant to steal this power. You are a folly, a fraud, a foreigner daring to trod on my soil - and you will die for your trespassing.”_

No.

No, that wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right.

Nothing felt right, except them.

Your comrades.

They were right, even if you weren’t.

You were wrong. You didn’t belong. But you’d managed to get them all together. You’d set the Inquisition on its path.

Was it enough?

What would they do without the anchor? They needed it. There were rifts yet that needed to be closed. There was still danger and darkness and deeds that needed done.

_There - it’s her!_

Who’s there? Not you. You were listless, drifting, fading, faded. You were nothing.

_Thank the Maker!_

She sounded important, whoever she was. Important and wanted and worried for.

_Told you she’d make it, Seeker - we found her!_

You were jostled, and the plaintive whine that fell from your lips was an alien sound. Big, sturdy arms coiled around your form, turning you upright and hefting you aloft. You felt weightless, moving forward, only anchored by powerful hands and sturdy chest. Your eyes fluttered open, despite the ice that had welded them shut.

“Wake the healers!” the man called roughly. “Get a fire going in a tent - she’s nearly frozen!”

“Yes, ser!”

“Let the others know we found her, but keep her condition quiet. She’s on death’s door. The last thing we need is mass hysteria.”

“Of course. Curly?”

“Yes?”

“Keep an eye on her.”

“I planned on it.”

“Good. Come on, Seeker.”

“Fine.”

Silence.

You choked out a noise that was supposed to be a word. The blond looked down at you, worry clouding his eyes, face flushed from the cold. He murmured your name. It sounded so odd on his tongue. Not Ellana. Not Evelyn. _Yours._

Your eyes fell shut.

“‘No heroics’,” a deep, weary, hoarse voice murmured close to your ear. “‘ _No heroics.’_ Maker’s breath.”

“C’len,” you slurred, your lips numb. Your tongue seemed limp in your mouth. You reached, fumbled, gripped the first thing your fingers touched - the pelt bunched easily into your fist, despite you not being able to feel it. “...e ‘eard m’...”

Warm gold peered down at you, shadowed by night and clouds and snow. “What?”

Your eyelids fell shut, heavy and tired. “...Made ‘im hear me.”

A soft whisper of a laugh filled the air with mist, almost sounding sad. His arms readjusted around you, pulling you closer. He tucked your head onto the fur draped over his shoulder, rustling in the wind - it was softer than anything you’d felt before, and tickled your nostrils. “Yes...yes, you certainly did, my lady.” He squeezed you tight, and you caught a whiff of mead lingering on his breath. You thought of a dimly lit chantry and soft conversation. “...Are you all right?”

But you were already drifting away.

Your nose itched.

It was a muted feeling, muffled as though felt through cloth, but the absence of an obstruction proved otherwise. Scrunched cheeks did not dissuade the persistent agitation. Neither did a pointed puff of breath. Feather-like down formed a border, brushing softly and lightly and _tickling-_

The sneeze that ripped itself from your nose made your throat and sinuses burn. The globules of snot that trickled down your lips were not pleasant in the slightest. A truly pitiful whine escaped your throat, and you had to admit to yourself that you felt _miserable._

“Hush, child,” cooed a low-toned accent vaguely familiar. A gentle touch from a handkerchief removed the evidence of your chill. “Lie still.”

“M’r G’selle,” you mumbled, trying to open your eyes and failing.

“Sshh,” she echoed, her fingers warm and callused against your forehead, brushing away the itch. “Are you warming up, child?”

You were cold, still, but...you weren’t freezing. There wasn’t any more wind, just warm air filling your lungs, smelling of smoke and incense and herbs. You could feel your legs again, down to your knees. You gave as best of a nod as you could manage, which was but a stiff upwards jerk.

“Good. Can you feel your limbs?”

Another nod.

“What about your fingers? And your toes?”

After a cursory wiggle that felt distant and asleep, you let out a raspy grunt.

“Hmm. It will return in due time, do not worry. Do you have enough blankets? Is your cot comfortable?”

Considering you felt as though there were a bronto sitting on your chest, you suspected so. The straw-filled pad beneath your (starkly bare) back had enough give, if it wasn’t a bit prickly. Your skin was still covered in goosebumps, so it was hard to tell.

The hand moved down to your cheek, her thumb resting upon your lips. It waited there for several moments, gauging - your breaths weren’t as difficult to draw anymore, for which you were thankful.

A chair creaked and the hand retreated. “Do you think you could drink something, child?”

Something wet sounded divine for your dried, heavy tongue right about then. “...Y’s.”

Clink, pour, blow. The hand snaked under the nape of your neck, lifting with a surprising amount of strength. Warm ceramic touched your lips, and you tried to free your hands from their furred confines to hold the cup, with no success. A bitter flavor saturated your tongue and filled your mouth like liquid dirt - but it was better than snow, and you gulped it down as fast as you could. Elfroot, and...spindleweed? The bottom of your stomach dropped out as soon as the tea trickled down your esophagus, eager to be filled. It was hot, you knew from the steam dampening your nose and cheeks, but your mouth was cold and it only felt vaguely warm until it hit your insides like a guttering candle dripping wax.

“Th’nk you,” you managed when the cup was pulled away. The revered mother emitted a quiet hum and smoothed her palm over your forehead again, soothing.

Thunk on wood, shuffle of fabric, stepping away. A warm, dry cloth was pressed to the sides of your neck, massaging lightly. It felt wonderful, and reminded you of a rare, blue-mooned trip to the spa downtown.

Something over your chest loosened.

“May I?” she asked.

You nodded again, unsure of what she meant.

The furs and blankets were pulled gingerly away from your front, lightening and allowing you to breathe more freely. It took you a few moments too long to realize you barely had any lingering internal pain.

It took you moments longer to come to the understanding that you had no clothing to speak of on your person.

“M-m’th’r G’s-s’lle,” you stuttered, weak and hoarse and achy.

“Shh,” was all that was replied, in a tone so motherly it made you homesick. “Do not worry. You are safe here.”

Another warm compress was applied to your chest, pressed firmly against your skin - then the layers upon layers of insulation were replaced over your form just as quickly, as if they’d never been removed. The added, fresh warmth helped you to feel human again immensely.

“Do you feel better?” she queried, stroking damp, errant strands of hair away from clinging to your cheeks in repetitive motions that lulled you into a heavy-minded trance more readily than you would’ve admitted to anyone outside.

You nodded, and the motion seemed a touch easier.

“Good. Go back to sleep. We will be here when you awake stronger.”

You thought you heard the susurration of canvas as you drifted off into nothingness for what seemed the millionth time that night.

“Is she - I thought I heard-”

“She is fine, commander,” Giselle scolded lightly. “Return to the others.”

Indignation rose. “But-”

“You will do her no better sitting and waiting here twiddling your thumbs than tending to your people, child. Go.”

A huff followed you into a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
